Fated Reunions
by ronny-of-yore
Summary: After the battle for the throne, Arya goes back to Winterfell and Gendry to Storm's End. Apart, they try to move on with their lives. However, whenever something is destined to be, fate will always intervene.
1. Chapter 1

**The Master of Arms and The Lord of Storm's End**

The sun was high in the midday sky, yet it was half hidden by heavy clouds that left a crisp chill in the air. Inside the rebuilt castle walls of Winterfell, the new Master of Arms was busy giving out hard lessons to the ones that had ventured north to swear fealty to House Stark.

"Remember the goal!" Arya Stark shouted as she easily side-stepped a wild downward slice from a broadsword that was meant to cleave deep into her left shoulder and torso. "Stay light of feet and restrict your opponent's target! Side facing is key! Now come at me again, Roland!"

The fair-haired youth in well-worn boiled leather, came at her with a new determination as the other new recruits looked on from their silent vantage points standing on either side of the spar. Next, Roland's larger sword cut a side slash toward Arya's hip that she easily parried with two ringing clangs of Needle's thinner blade.

"If the blow is deflected, immediately follow up with another attack! The trick is to never aim for the same place twice!" Arya loudly instructed as she dropped to one knee, spinning in the dirt with Needle as she did so. The blade thwacked off the hard leather covering the other's broader leg; it was a slice that would have no doubt cut clear through breeches, flesh, and bone if she had been serious. Luckily for Roland, this was just training.

And it seemed that Roland was heeding her words as he immediately followed up with a downward slice to the top of her head.

"Save your arm strength when you can!" Arya shouted, deftly swaying her body to the right to avoid the blow entirely. "Make your body an extension of your sword! Use it wisely!"

Two hands on his hilt now, Roland grit his teeth and swung with all his might in a follow-up slash from the side again. Arya, still lowered to the ground, easily rolled out the way, coating the side of her own leathers with a layer of mud. As she came out of her roll, she hopped back up on two solid feet and instantly lunged forward for the kill.

"My lady," a voice called from behind, just as Arya's sword whispered through the air to come and rest a hairsbreadth away from Roland's bobbing throat.

"My lady, your sister would like a word," Ser Brienne of Tarth and current Winterfell Captain of the Castle Guard stated as Arya fluidly twirled her weapon in her grasp and slid her sword back into its sheath.

"Podrick," Arya called to the Winterfell knight that was no longer a squire. "I'll leave the rest of the lesson to you if you don't mind."

Podrick, who had been leaning against the castle wall and silently observing, pushed off from his perch while drawing his sword. "I will whip them into shape until your return, my lady."

"See that you do," Arya said with a nod and then she and Brienne were off.

Heading toward the main part of the keep, Arya brushed the dirt from her clothes. She did so mainly in an effort to keep her dear sister from complaining when she saw her more than anything else. Sansa did not mind that she had requested the mantle of Master of Arms and gladly acquiesced to her request. However, her sister did so with a sharp reminder that, no matter her title, Arya will always be a lady representing House Stark. Luckily for Arya, Sansa's definition of a lady in respect to Arya has changed over the years. Her sister no longer expected Arya to wear finery and curtsy. However, Sansa told her she does expect Arya to at least act like a lord their father would be proud of, and Arya could find no fault in that.

"You have a bit of twig," Brienne told her as they walked side by side. "There. No. Other side."

"Thanks," Arya replied as she plucked the stick out of her long windblown hair. "So," she casually asked as their footsteps lead them inside the Castle. "What does Sansa need of me now? Is there another thief that needs to be dealt with?" Thinking of the disgraced squire she had maimed not but a fortnight ago, Arya frowned. "I had hoped that last lesson would stay in the minds of the others."

"No," Brienne replied, her mind too going to the image of the teenage boy whose right hand Arya had cleanly severed from his body. Shaking that image away, she said, "Lady Sansa's had a raven. I have no idea the contents, but she did say she wishes to speak of them with you."

"I see," Arya frowned. Dark wings bring dark words. She went over the possibilities of who the message could be from and its contents as they continued their trek to the library in silence.

Could it be Jon from his new home far north of the wall with Tormund and Ghost? Has there been an accident or altercation during his self-proclaimed exile after ending the mad Dragon Queen and the love of his life? Or could something have happened to Bran in King's landing? Could someone have tried to assassinate their new King of the 7 Kingdoms, the 3-eyed raven, and Leader of the Council of Men? With her family's tragic history, the news of a raven always sets her on edge. For a damaged Arya, even having found herself living in peaceful times at last, a part of her can't help but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Before Arya rounded the threshold to the library, Brienne took up a guard post by the door. Arya continued inside, setting eyes on the fair-skinned, red haired woman who so reminded Arya of a hardened version of their mother now. "You were looking for me?"

"Yes," Sansa replied, looking up from a piece of parchment unfurled in her fingers. "Apparently, I've been invited to a wedding."

"A wedding?" Arya echoed with relief as she took up a seat. Kicking the side of a booted foot to rest on her knee, she slid back in her chair and prodded, "Go on then. Has Bran and The Council finally decided on a queen?"

"No," Sansa replied, laying the scroll down to rest atop the stack of parchments detailing Winterfell's resource management before her. "Myself and any honored guests are cordially invited to witness Lord Bronn of Highgarden taking the hand of Lady Constance Emmanuel of Dorne. The joyous occasion will be held in two moons time, on the eve of the solstice in spring."

"And you want me to accompany you?"

"I would."

"Brienne will man the castle with Podrick while we're away?"

"That was my plan."

"Can I assume that I'll be there to solely protect you and not to make nice with the other lords and ladies?"

"You can."

"Alright," Arya agreed with a thoughtful nod. "I'll go."

"Good," Sansa said with a smile. "I'll have an outfit made for you alongside my own. Yours will not be a dress, I assure you."

Arya shrugged, bending forward to fill an empty cup with the water from a nearby jug. "I'll leave it to you then."

* * *

"But I don't even like him. I mean, the last council meeting we had, he called me a twat," Lord Gendry Baratheon complained to his trusted advisor Ser Davos of Seaworth as they stood staring out the large window of Gendry's scholar. Even though the news he had just received was bad at least the scenery wasn't; he sighed as he took in the grand sight of the sun shining over steep cliffs and the frothing sea below.

Arms crossed, Davos stemmed the need to roll his eyes. "You don't have to like a man to attend his wedding. I promise you this. More than half the attendees will feel the same way you do but—"

"But," Gendry finished, wholly resigned, "they'll go because they're honor and duty bound."

"Too right you are," Davos replied solemnly back with a nod.

"Fine. I'll go," Gendry reluctantly agreed. "But I'm telling you this. I refuse any ideas of traveling with any small armies tagging along behind me. If we go, it should be with just a small group. Besides, no one else needs to sit through this torture but those who actually need to."

"Consideration for his people is a great trait in a lord," Davos replied with a bit of humor. "But I agree. Myself and two of our best guards should be more than enough if we keep a low profile on the road."

"That I can do," Gendry replied. A silence fell on them as Gendry's thoughts took over him; the lull was broken by the sudden tap of his fingers on the stone sill. "So … all the heads of houses will definitely show up then?"

Davos narrowed eyes at the others failed nonchalant tone, but replied certain all the same, "Would bet a few ships on it."

Then, with a sigh of his own, Davos pat the man's shoulder and added, "And with that, lad, be forewarned. Many will use these nuptials to try to bend your ear about a fine lady in their blood line that would be oh so perfect just for you."

"For me?" Gendry echoed, already terribly uneasy about the idea. "But I'm not-"

"With these types of things, its best to keep your answers as vague as possible. Too outright a refusal could make the asker lose face and remember … keeping this hard fought peace is the most important thing right now."

Gendry nodded in resignation. "I know. I promise I'll try not to say anything to start any wars."

"Good, lad," Davos replied, before frowning "Speaking of marriage proposals… You know…"

"Oh, not this again," Gendry groused, turning around and heading back to his desk where his practice pen and parchment lay. "I'd rather go back to my lessons than hear you talk about how a lord needs a lady to make an heir."

"But an heir you will need," Davos argued back, he too tired of having to broach the subject that always seems to set the other off. "And to do that, you will need a lady."

"Don't need a lady," Gendry all but growled.

"Yara Greyjoy seems to think so," Davos pointedly reminded. "And her and that smitten distant cousin of hers will no doubt track you down at the wedding."

"I smiled at her. I smiled at her once," Gendry groaned which just made Davos chuckle.

"Sometimes a smile is all it takes to grab the heart of a fair maiden"

"Maiden is not the word I would use to describe Fara Greyjoy," Gendry groused back. His mind brought up the girl's mischievous brown eyes and up-swept curly red hair. He pushed it aside as soon as it came.

"Maybe not, but one can argue that the girl isn't too hard on the eyes," Davos countered.

"A pretty face is one thing, but her attitude towards everyone and everything is just-" Gendry shook his head.

Davos shrugged. "Marriage has been known to temper a person."

"I would never try to change my wife," Gendry ground out. "If I truly loved her, even if she was a loud mouthed tomboy hell-bent on killing me slowly from the inside out, I still wouldn't force her to change a bloody thing." With a shake of his head, Gendry cut off his thoughts. "Look, can we just… Can we just get back to my writing this godsdamn return message to the bastard who apparently likes calling me a twat?"

Davos gave in to the request as he went to take his seat on the other side of the writing table. However, he did so with many questions nipping at his insides. For one, he could understand a man wanting to be selective in his wife, especially a bastard newly made a lord, but this… Davos was almost certain there was a story there, but he wouldn't push. Maybe in time, Gendry will finally tell him all about this mysterious girl who obviously shattered his kind heart to pieces.


	2. The Raider and The Protector

The Pillager and The Protector

The large outside pavilion was a huge circular stone surface which was surrounded by all manner of colorful flowers. Around the northern edge of the circle were stone steps leading up to a quaint area covered by a bright green and yellow canopy; the alcove was large enough to fit a long intricately carved table with which Lord Bronn of Highgarden and his bride-to-be Constance Emmanuel of Dorne sat drinking, smiling, and observing their guests.

Towards the rear of the joyous affair, Arya casually stood in the shadows of two nearby trees; she was close enough to her lady sister to protect her and far enough away that whomever Sansa chose to speak to would never even notice that her sword and shield was there. Currently, Arya was praising her near invisibility since Sansa was busy making awkward small talk with young lord Robin Arryn of the Vale. Arya had just met him and she already didn't like him. She couldn't quite put her finger on it, but there was something off about the younger male that rubbed her the wrong way entirely. However, he looked to be an inept fool that even Sansa, if hard pressed, could take out herself if needs be. Certain her sister was safe in conversation, Arya found her attention waning and her gaze began to drift around the gathered crowd.

Laughter and jaunty music filtered in her ears as she looked over the seated guests with half eaten plates of food and goblets of fine drink in front of them. She didn't recognize many faces and she didn't want to. But there among the sea of well-wishers was a man that Arya did know and her eyes found him easily. She knew him quite well after all. She knew he would be here. Of course he would. He, like her dear sister, was in charge of one of the 7 great houses now. Her chest tightened and her stomach burned with so many emotions as she took in the sight of the gold pins fashioned in the shape of stags securing his black cloak to his matching black and yellow doublet. His hair was longer, almost darker, almost the way she remembered it when they were kids. Nostalgia took hold of her, captured her heart in its unforgiving grasp and _squeezed_.

_I can be your family._

_You wouldn't be my family. You'd be milady._

_You're beautiful and I love you and none of it will mean anything if you're not with me._

Standing in the shadows, unseen by all, even if for just the briefest of seconds, Arya's passive features reflected her chaotic inward struggle. She has no list. It was finally completed. Even so, she has what is left of her precious family now, and like the true she-wolf she is, she _will_ protect it. After all, Arya had learned the hard way that enemies like to hide in sheep's clothing, using peaceful times to lull a person into a false sense of security. These enemies will laugh with you one minute and when the time is nigh to further their ambitions, pay someone to try to stick a dagger in your back in the next. Sansa was beautiful, shrewd, and cunning and as of yet did not wish to rule Winterfell with another. Many lords had already asked for the right of her hand and she has politely declined. Arya knew some would settle with her sister's decision, but not all. There will always be those that didn't, and Arya welcomed them to come.

Flicking flinty eyes back to Sansa saying her goodbyes to the Lord of the Vale, Arya reaffirmed her vows that her lord sister had never asked her to take.

_I will be her sword of vengeance and mercy and the shield that protects her from this day to my last._

* * *

Lord Gendry Baratheon sat at one of the many u-shaped tables in the center of the platform, facing their gracious hosts. Behind an upturned goblet of wine, his gaze narrowed on the one who had welcomed him with an oh-so warm, "Nice of you to drop by, Lord Twat. Please enjoy the festivities."

"Not a good idea to stare daggers at our host," Davos, seated beside Gendry, commented. "I know the man gets under your skin, but let it go, lad. Let it be his day."

"I don't get it," Gendry grumbled, looking from Bronn to the tan-skinned, dark haired beauty beside him. Constance Emmanuel was dressed in matching forest green and gold colors with the top of the form fitting dress coming down in a V that flared out just a touch at the hips. The woman's smile was infectious and warm and she truly seemed to have her soon-to-be lord husband wrapped around her little finger. "How does someone like _him_ end up with someone like _that_?"

"Right lucky bastard he is," Yara Greyjoy enviously interjected as she appeared at Davos' side. "How do you do and all that," she greeted as she lifted a leg over the low backed chair beside Ser Davos and immediately sat down to drink. Truthfully, Yara hadn't wanted to attend the frivolous affair. Like most on the council, she wasn't a fan of Lord Bronn of Highgarden, Master of Coin. However, Fara had challenged her to a game of dice and trounced her thrice. Besides, it was either come or not come and be subjected to her cousin's constant whinging about missed opportunities and the like. Tasting the wine and finding the taste to be good, Yara figured it was the lesser of two evils.

Gendry's back stiffened as the chair beside him was dragged back with lazy care.

"It's a fine day isn't it, Lord Baratheon?" Fara Grejoy asked as she plopped herself down, but not without flashing her intended target a smile full of teeth. "What say we share a drink in honor of this joyous occasion, eh?"

"Already having a drink, thanks," Gendry replied back with a lift of his goblet—trying to be both casual and friendly.

"You both look lovely this evening," Ser Davos pointedly said, his comment the words his lord was supposed to say in this situation, but didn't.

"Keep your niceties," Yara, in worn leather pants, boots, and the usual Greyjoy emblazoned breast plate, posed back indifferently. "I'm just here for the free food and drink." Spying a Dornish handmaiden that reminded her so much of the dearly departed Ellaria Sand, she amended, "Well, maybe not _just_ the food and drink." With that, she was gone—her stay with them as brief as the summer rains that sometimes sprinkled over the Ironborn Islands.

With her swift departure, Gendry and Davos found themselves at the mercy of her twice removed cousin.

"Have you ever been on a ship before, Lord Baratheon?" Fara asked, rapidly bringing the attention to herself. She played with the necklace of seashells around her neck as she awaited his answer.

Remembering Davos' words to be cordial, Gendry finally turned his eyes from his drink to the woman beside him. She was wearing a black studded leather jerkin that left her left shoulder bare; on the front was engraved her house sigil—the kraken—in yellow. Like Yara, Fara was wearing leather breeches and boots. He watched her pull a strand of long curly red hair behind a pale ear as he said, "Please, just call me Gendry."

"Well, lord Gendry," she flirtatiously smiled back. "Have you?"

"A boat? Yes," Gendry relayed, thinking of his time being all but lost on the sea after Davos' rescue from the red witch. Turning away from the woman's smile that had slipped into the leer he was all too familiar with, he thoughtfully added, "A true ship though? Never."

"We should change that," Fara eagerly said, sliding her chair closer to him. Leaning in, she heatedly whispered, "I could show you a thing or two of the Iron Islands. Things you won't much forget."

"Oh, look," Davos helpfully cut in. "They have mutton. I quite like mutton. Think I'll go grab a plate before it's all gone."

Gendry gave his retreating advisor a withering look as he left. _Coward._

"You know, I think I've had my fair share of the sea," Gendry replied as he unconcernedly slid his chair away from the brazen woman's looming presence. "Besides, I live seaside now. I can look out and admire the waves any time I want."

"Well, that's true," Fara agreed, much undeterred. "But what's a pretty view without a pretty me?"

"Indeed," Gendry offhandedly replied back without much inflection in his words.

Thankfully, he was spared by a shadow falling over them. Looking up, he found the Lady of Winterfell standing before him. Tall, regal, and dressed in an off the shoulder black and grey gown with her favored circular chain around her neck, Sansa Stark greeted him kindly. "Lord Baratheon, you are looking well."

He watched her smooth the ends of her black and grey fur stow as he gratefully got up and addressed the distraction, "As are you, Lady Stark."

"Who is this?" he heard Sansa ask as she turned to the forgotten woman to his side.

"Oh," Gendry began, remembering his manners. "This is Fara Greyjoy. She's—"

"Greyjoy?" Sansa echoed. "So you're Yara's cousin I've heard so much about."

"That I am," Fara replied, still sitting, with no hint of joviality in her eyes. "I'm sure everything you heard about me is true. Even the bad parts." A cross of arms and a defiant lean back in her chair. "Mostly the bad parts."

Clearly sensing the other's animosity and not one to flinch away from it anymore, Sansa coolly posed back, "Have I slighted you in some way for you to speak to me so?"

"Not just you in particular," Fara said leaning forward with a glare. "I'd say it's more like your entire family has slighted mine own."

"Is there a problem here?" a familiar voice interjected from behind Gendry—all but making him jump out of his skin. She was right behind him. How had he not known that she was right behind him this entire time?

Turning around, her name fell from his lips as he took in the sight of her. "Arya."

Hair in a messy plait down her shoulder, she wore a ruffled blouse under a sleeveless grey and brown jerkin that was snugly fastened by two belts at the waist; the outfit was casual yet formal with matching breeches and boots and Gendry suddenly couldn't remember her ever looking more beautiful.

However, he was ignored as the woman he continued to openly stare at patiently gazed down at a surprised Fara who had instinctively slid far away from Arya's sudden presence. Sword on one hip, dagger on the other, Arya placed her hands patiently behind her back and said, "I asked you a question. If you would be so kind as to answer it please."

"Its nothing," Sansa calmly assured her, breaking her gaze away from the Ironborn woman who was now glaring daggers at her sister's false smile. "I was just asking Lord Baratheon where we could find two empty seats."

"No need," Gendry heard Arya say to her sister before he further watched her take a step back with a nod toward the back of the pavilion. "I found seating in the back with a better view of the grounds."

"Aren't you going to say hello to Lord Baratheon?" Sansa deliberately asked, ever in an attempt to remind her dear sister the niceties that even their lord father would take. After all, Sansa had told her that she didn't have to mingle with anyone, but it was best if Arya at least said her hellos.

Chest tightening, Gendry watched Arya's eyes slowly sweep from a still glaring Fara to his stunned self. After a breath, they were both silently staring at each other and for a few heartbeats more neither said a word. Thankfully, Arya was first to break the awkward silence.

"Hello, Lord Baratheon."

Gendry's mind rapidly mulled over every inflection of Arya's voice. Was it a sad tone? Was it a happy one? Did her slight pause even mean anything at all?

"Hi," he nervously replied, still shaken. After a breath, he tried to rectify his unlordly mistake. "I mean, hello. I mean, I—I like what you've done to your hair."

"Thanks," he watched her lips quirk into the smallest of smiles at the thought that something like this moment has played out between them before. "I like what you've done to yours as well."

And then he was watching her turn away with a "Shall we?" to her lady sister and Gendry did _not_ want her to go.


	3. The Smuggler and The Lady Fair

**The Smuggler and the Lady Fair**

"Pardon my eavesdropping, Lady Fara, but I feel I should tell you that House Stark is a dangerous enemy you do _not_ want to make," Davos warned as he retook his seat with a half-eaten plate of mutton in hand. He had viewed their exchange as he had stood by the banquet table nibbling his meaty prize. Although he had been too far away to hear any particular words, Davos had seen enough of each of their expressions to voice his concerns. "History has shown that those who do, do not live to a ripe old age."

Fara merely snorted. "Rather die young and attractive then live old and wrinkly."

"Well, that was rude," Gendry, unable to hold his tongue, chastised as he too moved to retake his chair. "What have the Starks ever done to you?"

Fara's eyes blazed as she turned to face the man who had dared to look at the youngest Stark the way that he had. Gone was her flirtatious smile and sweet words of promised passion. In their absence, Fara's features were filled with a rage as fiery as her unruly hair. "They took my cousin when he was young, scrambled his brains, and then threw him away," Fara angrily spat, sinking a fork deep into the table in front of her. Then, she immediately followed her tirade with a quick drawback of her chair as she got up to leave. However, she did not part without leaving a few choice words for the one she would have freely given herself to. "If I'd 've known you were such a fucking Stark lover, I never would've wasted my time. It was nice not getting to know you, Lord Baratheon. I will not be seeing you around."

And then she was gone, and her absence did not leave Gendry with a hole, but with more questions that he had no answers to.

"What…? What is she talking about?" Gendry asked Ser Davos who was sadly shaking his head.

"Theon Greyjoy," Davos explained, pushing his plate away for the time being. The girl's words were plain and it was enough, even with his limited knowledge, to fit the jumbled pieces together. "As you well know, Theon fought and died to protect House Stark, particularly Bran Stark, in the Godswood against the Night king. But Theon's story wasn't always one of love and loyalty. Young Theon started out a hostage taken from his father, Balon Greyjoy, at a young age to ensure the Ironborn never acted against your late father King Robert."

"He was Ned Stark's hostage?" Gendry asked, surprised and just a tad bit appalled.

"Yes," Davos sighed. "But one well-loved from the stories I've heard. That is, until he had a mind to take over their castle. But even having betrayed them, the Starks forgave him in the end and that's why he was there that night with us all. That's why he decided, in his own right, to fight and die within Winterfell's walls."

Gendry nodded, taking it all in. He didn't doubt Davos' words. He remembered, after the battle at Winterfell, Lady Sansa's tears as she had stood by Theon's funeral pyre. Shaking that scene of grief from his mind, Gendry voiced another question that suddenly gnawed at him like a rat to cheese.

"Well, its obvious she hates me now," Gendry began, just a touch saddened but otherwise unconcerned, "but why didn't Fara hate me before? I mean, I am my father's son after all."

"It's simply irrational anger, lad. Misplaced emotions like that rarely make sense," Davos explained with a somber tone. "Remember, Yara Greyjoy herself stated to Lady Sansa during the first council meeting that she understood her brother's decision and held no ill will toward House Stark. Fara just seems to have more of a stubborn nature, one that pushes blame on others to help herself grieve."

"Still shouldn't have acted like that," Gendry reflected, meaning the girls complete lack of decorum. "I mean, she made Arya step in … and gods know how that would've ended up if her lady sister hadn't intervened."

"You may have a point there," Davos agreed, pondering the possibility himself. The youngest Stark did have a dark air about her and he remembered what he had seen coming down the battlements during the war against the Night King. She was both capable and deadly—a woman he would not want to be on the opposing side of any war.

"Wouldn't have been pretty," Gendry grimly added.

"Speaking of the Lady Arya," Davos commented, thinking back to the look on Gendry's face when he had initially saw her. "You two seem familiar."

Not liking the other's tone one bit, Gendry shrugged a shoulder. "Traveled together for a bit as kids when the gold cloaks were after me and the Lannister's after her. Our journey together didn't last very long. It was nothing special."

Davos quirked a surprised brow. "If age hasn't addled my memory, the moment I took you to meet Jon, you told him all about who you truly were against my wishes mind you. But you failed to mention anything about having traveled with his younger sister? Why?"

Again, Gendry shrugged, not exactly hiding the truth. "It never came up and with everything going on, I didn't think my telling Jon that I had traveled with and then parted ways with his sister was all that important. Like I said, we weren't together that long."

"Not important?" Davos tried to keep his voice low and failed. "The Starks were fighting to find their way back to each other. Of course it was important."

"You don't understand," Gendry explained with a pained expression, "Back then, she was more cockroach than girl. A stubborn, foolishly brave, resourceful little cockroach and if anyone would ever find their way home in that mess we had found ourselves in… Well, it was her. I didn't bring it up, because I knew… I _knew_ that she would find her way home to Winterfell again one day," Looking away at nothing in particular, he added, "And Jon would be there when she did."

"You made the journey with us that brought the two together," Davos remarked, wondering if the Stark girl had anything to do with Gendry's swift approval of leaving the forge in King's landing when he had come to find him.

"That I did," Gendry said. "And look at us now."

Davos noted that the other's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. However, armed with new information, he was starting to put a few pieces of a larger puzzle together. However, he still had no idea exactly what the big picture would ultimately show him or how deep Gendry's feelings for Arya Stark actually ran.

"Heard besides her sister's protector, she's the new Master of Arms of Winterfell now," Davos commented, having learned such a thing while mingling through the crowd.

"Suits her," Gendry remarked with a slight tilt of his head. "Make her a weapon and I bet she'd master it in a day."

"You made her a weapon yourself if I recall?" Davos asked in an attempt to keep the other talking. Gendry's mood had turned melancholy and Davos didn't see the harm in taking a little advantage of it if his actions were for the greater good.

"Aye, I did. Half spear, half staff that came apart in the middle. Asked me to make it herself she did. It was a good piece of work that. I was proud of all the weapons I made for that battle, but her's in particular."

"Amazing accomplishment for a woman her age and stature if you think about it," Davos idled. "We all thought it would be Jon to finish the blighter off in the end."

"Told her she should be down in the crypts, I did," Gendry chuckled lightly.

"Bet she didn't like that," Davos smiled.

"No," Gendry shook his head with his own smile. "She didn't." And then the smile faded as he added, "Guess I didn't really know her like I thought I did. Guess I don't know much about her now."

"Well," Davos braced himself before he even spit out the words, "why don't you _take_ the time to get to know her better."

"No," Gendry immediately put his foot down. "Whatever you're thinking, you can just stop. If there's one thing I know for certain, it's that Arya Stark will never be the lady of Storm's End."

* * *

"Are you going to tell me what that was all about?" Sansa asked her silent table companion as she placed a napkin on her lap.

"Looked like trouble so I stepped in," Arya replied around a bit of lamb she had taken from her sister's plate.

"Not that," Sansa said before taking a sip of her wine. "The _other_ part."

"What? And I told you never to drink before I've tested it first. You can't be too sure at gatherings like these."

"Don't play me a fool, Arya. You know what I meant and you're wearing my patience thin with all this poisoning rubbish."

"It's not rubbish. House Frey was wiped out by poison. I'm trying to save your life here."

"Says the poisoner," Sansa mused with a barely repressed roll of her eyes. "There's a story between you two. I'd like to know it, if you don't mind."

"I _mind_," Arya shot back, before scooping a bit of Sansa's potatoes into her mouth.

"Protesting is more or less admitting. I hope you know that much at least," Sansa replied with a cool air.

After a swallow of her food, Arya grabbed for her own goblet of wine and took a deep drink. She wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and tried not to stare at the back of a certain someone's head as she recounted their tale. "After our lord father was executed, I ran from King's Landing and ran right into Gendry. Things happened and we were forced to travel together with a few others before we ultimately got separated. In the end, he somehow found his way to Jon and Jon brought him back to Winterfell as part of the late Dragon Queen's army. You know the rest."

"Do I?" Sansa questioned with a highly suspect tone.

"You _do_," Arya stubbornly assured her, before tucking into her own plate that had already started to grow cold.

"So, you're old friends then?" Sansa pondered, not entirely letting the subject go. "That's it?"

Arya shrugged and spoke around a bit of soft carrot. "That's it."

"Nothing happened between you two?"

"No."

"Do you want something to?"

"Never."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Arya growled. "Now shut your face and eat before your own food gets cold."

* * *

"You may cloak the bride and bring her under your protection," Maester Gaylin instructed to Lord Bronn of Highgarden.

Lady Constance Emmanuelle of Dorne turned her back to the silent crowd and waited for her betrothed to drape her shoulders in his colors. All eyes were on the marrying couple. All eyes except for two. Even as Lady Constance bore the Highgarden symbol and the Maester began his closing words, Arya's gaze stayed fixed on Gendry's broad back and Sansa's on her oblivious sister whose face was showing a range of emotion Sansa had never seen before.


	4. The Meddling Fools And The Champions Two

_**The Meddlesome Fools and The Champions Two**_

_Dear Ser Davos of Seaworth,_

_I hope this letter finds you well. Please know that I am writing to you today in an effort to repay Lord Baratheon's honored assistance in freeing my half-brother, Jon Snow, from the captivity of the Unsullied and for his assistance in crowning my brother, Bran Stark, as King of the 7 kingdoms. I am directing this letter to you as Lord Baratheon's advisor instead of your lord directly in an effort to avoid causing undue insult. You see, we both know that Lord Baratheon is a new lord to the Storm Lands and I'm sure that we are both aware that it takes more than being given a title to win the people's hearts and minds. If I may, I merely offer a suggestion, one that I absolutely do not wish to be given any credit for. Might I suggest a celebratory event where the small folk can gather and see their new lord face-to-face. I was thinking it should be a joyous affair where members of every house could also participate and raise a pint to rejoice in the Lord of Storm's End's name. After much deliberation, I should think a tournament would be the perfect stage. If you find my suggestion agreeable, know that I would be willing to provide able-bodied support and a measure of coin to aid in the creation of such an affair. Please let me know your thoughts._

_Ever Yours,_

_Lady Sansa of House Stark_

Pacing in his room, Davos nervously tapped the roll of parchment against his palm with a brooding expression. Lady Sansa's idea was sound, but the reason behind it was unclear. After all, the Lady of Winterfell, like most nobles he knew, never struck him as being the type to offer a single thing without wanting something else in return. Unfortunately, exactly what this 'something else' is, Davos doesn't know. Even so, to him, this offer comes at an opportune time. After all, if things go to plan, a certain young woman may end up prowling the very same halls as his amorous lord. And if certain things happen, then so be it. With a nod to himself, Davos made up his mind before heading off to the dining hall where his lord was currently engaged in what Gendry liked to call yet another practice session of using a fork. As for Davos, he just called it eating dinner.

* * *

_Dear Lady Sansa of House Stark,_

_Please know that my lord is not a man to find insult in your suggestion. I have already talked it over with him and he has found your idea of a tournament and your offer of aid more than agreeable. House Baratheon does hate to ask for anything more than your kind words but your offer of coin would be greatly appreciated as, for a time, there has been no lordly council to keep the books. If you don't mind me asking, will you be sending a champion to participate in the tourney as well? Would this be something that Ser Brienne of Tarth or, perhaps, the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell would be interested in? Both are of names that hold a measure of infamy and would be a great draw if either one threw in their bid. Once again, your assistance is greatly appreciated. Please address all replies to my lord, if you would be so kind._

_Sincerely_

_Ser Davos of Seaworth_

Standing by the window of the Winterfell library with the letter unfurled in her hands, Sansa smiled. Part one of her plan was already a success. She had to be ever so careful with part two. The wording had to be just right. "I hope you don't mind my taking advantage of your honorability, Lord Baratheon," she mused, before heading to her writing table with an eagerness that she hadn't felt in quite some time.

* * *

_Dear Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End,_

_I am honored that you have decided to act upon my suggestion. Please know that I would indeed like to send a champion as well. Unfortunately, House Stark still holds a measure of skill in both melee and archery, but we are currently lacking in anyone with the talent for a joust. After all, the war with the Night King and the final war on King's Landing did sap many of our most talented fellows. Even so, I would still be more than willing to add monetary backing to the event as a show of good faith that I hope will be the first of many steps taken to strengthen the bond between House Stark and House Baratheon that our dear father's had managed to create._

_Ever Yours,_

_Lady Sansa of House Stark_

"Well, that doesn't seem right," Gendry replied to Davos who was standing over his shoulder.

"How do you mean? Davos nonchalantly asked as he thanked the gods for his lord's ever present kindness and his own good fortune.

"I _mean_," Gendry began with drawn together brows, "she's _paying_ for something her house isn't even able to participate in. Think we should change that, to be honest. Besides, jousting is fine but I'm more a fan of a good melee." An image of a certain woman with a bow popped into his mind then and he quickly amended, "Well, that and archery."

Davos nodded, mind lost in his own rapidly forming strategies. After a few moments, he casually added, "Why don't we throw in both?"

"What? Have jousting, a melee, _and _archery?" Gendry questioned, hoping the contents of their coffers would be enough.

"Why not?" Davos shrugged. "I seem to remember Ned Stark's Hand Tourney having all three. Granted we don't have the same resources as King's Landing, but we'll do just fine if we charge a decent entrance fee from each house." Thoughtfully stroking his beard, he added, "And with this House Stark will be able to enter and the other houses will have a wide variety of skill-sets to choose from as well. I think it's an agreeable situation for all involved."

"Alright," Gendry amicably agreed with a nod. "Then I guess I'll get to writing a reply." Pulling ink and parchment to him, he grimaced. "Hope you're not going anywhere any time soon, though. I mean, I still need help with the wording. Sounding lordly in person is one thing, but it's another beast on paper."

"Don't worry, lad," Davos told him with a comforting pat on his shoulder. "You're getting better with every letter you write."

* * *

_Dear Lady Sansa of House Stark,_

_Firstly, please ignore my penmanship for I am still practicing. Secondly, I am writing to you to let you know that I would like to repay the kindness you have offered me and my House by adding two more categories to the event. Please know that the Tournament of Storm's End shall include jousting, a melee, and archery. I've done so in hopes that not only House Stark, but all houses involved, can participate in the end. Once again, your council and aid has been of the utmost value. _

_Sincerely,_

_Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End_

"What are you smirking at?" Arya curiously inquired of her sister who was currently reading a scroll given to her at the Great Hall's dining room table.

"Nothing," Sansa replied, rolling the parchment back up and slipping it under the belt of her finely trimmed dress.

"Who's the letter from?" Arya asked, tucking into her plate of honeyed-roasted chicken, roast onions dripping with brown gravy, a trencher of bread and a goblet of wine.

Picking up her own choice of drink, Sansa decided to tell her curious sister the truth-if only to see her reaction. "Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End," she proclaimed and Arya did not disappoint.

"Gendry wrote you?" Arya demanded, the skewered bit of chicken on her fork paused halfway to her mouth. After a beat, she popped the food between her lips and further urged, "_Why_?"

"Because," Sansa replied after delicately wiping her mouth with a napkin, "He's hosting a tournament and has invited House Stark to participate."

"Oh," Arya said, looking down at her plate. Then, after shoveling more food into her mouth and having thankfully swallowed, she questioned, "What kind of tournament is it then? Is it jousting?"

"Yes," Sansa said, using her fork to pierce a cranberry that came with a slice of her own roasted chicken. "But there's also going to be a melee with a side of archery."

Arya nodded behind another mouthful of food. After swallowing, she grabbed for her drink. "Interesting that. So, who are you gonna send?"

* * *

_Dear Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End,_

_Please know that I greatly appreciate your consideration and will be sending my contribution to you alongside my champions who will—_

"I'm not going," Arya stubbornly said from her place sitting in the library, in the chair opposite of Sansa—her words having interrupted the fluid strokes of her lady sister. Arya's reasoning on her refusal was twofold. For one, she didn't much like crowds nowadays. For another, if she went, she would be stuck in Storm's End with a man she was still trying everything she could to forget. To be honest, the wedding in Highgarden had done more harm to the walls she had built around her heart than she had first thought possible. However, Arya didn't have time to ponder such things as her sister spoke.

"Yes, you _are_." Sansa assured, barely looking up from her paused quill. After a breath, she put ink to parchment once more as she instructed, "You _will_ go and you _will_ bring great honor to this house."

"You mean _Brienne_ will go and bring great honor to her own house and this one too," Arya countered, pointedly. "You don't need me."

"I _do_," Sansa demanded, still finishing her letter, "Brienne is a more than capable knight, but even she lacks the aptitude to enter all 3 categories alone. She is a poor jouster at best—her words, not mine—and a wonder with the sword and as such so are _you._ However, she is not fluent in the use of a bow. You _are_. So, it stands to reason that I must needs send you both. Podrick can stay behind and man the castle guards while you two are gone." Putting down her quill and rolling up her letter, she stamped the message closed with a hot wax seal in the shape of a direwolf. "The matter is settled. You two will be leaving in two nights' time and will be carrying with you House Stark's monetary contribution to the affair."

"Anyone can use a bow," Arya argued. "It doesn't have to be me. Ser Roland's shit with a sword but his aim with an arrow isn't too bad and—"

"You misunderstand me," Sansa cut in, looking her sister deep in the eyes without any hint of amusement. "I did not agree to send participants from our house to simply make an appearance. My intentions are to send the very best of our fighters to absolutely crush the competition. Can you do that for me?"

Arya was quiet for a moment as she took in her sister's demeanor and words. In truth, she didn't like to be told what to do, but she also has never been one to run from a challenge. She wouldn't run from this one either. "What about the joust?" she simply asked.

Sansa sighed. "That can be left to the other houses. House Stark will have to suffice with easily sweeping two of the three events being held."

"You have that much faith in us?" Arya asked, leaning back in her chair with crossed arms and a smirk.

"Shouldn't I?" Sansa posed back with a lift of a brow.

Arya sighed, resignedly. "Fine. I'll go, but I won't like it."

Sansa smiled to Arya … and to herself.

"I don't expect you to. I only expect you to win."

* * *

"Dear Lord Gendry Baratheon of Storm's End. Please know that I greatly appreciate your consideration and will be sending my contribution to you alongside my champions who will also aid in the tournament's creation. Please know that I am sending Ser Brienne of Tarth and Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell to represent House Stark."

"Arya's coming," Gendry trailed off, after hearing Davos recite the message newly sent to them by raven. A large part of him knew she would be a likely candidate the moment he decided to extend the tourney's list, but he couldn't help himself. If there was a way to see her again, the weak part of him would always take it.

"That would be a yes," Davos replied, half ignorant to Gendry's internal turmoil as he read the rest of the message to himself. "Looks like the two have already been dispatched as well. Besides escorting our funds, they'll be assisting in the creation of the tournament in any capacity they can. Quite nice of Lady Sansa if I do say so myself."

"Yeah, nice," Gendry replied, rather distracted.

"Listen, lad," Davos said in an effort to catch his lord's full attention. "Lady Sansa has done us a great deed by sending those two. Lots of lads will be chomping at the bit to try and take the both of them on in an effort to make a name themselves."

"And fail miserably," Gendry remarked with a slow grin.

"Most likely," Davos agreed. "Still, House Baratheon will thank them for their efforts."

"You mean thank them for their gold," Gendry replied with something close to a snicker.

"That too," Davos nodded, unashamed.

Gendry took a moment to try and settle his thoughts, but he had to know, "When do you think they'll arrive?"

"Well," Davos pondered, crossing his arms and tilting his head, "if they ride hard enough, a turn of a moon's time? If they come down by boat, say from White Harbor, I'd say it would be safe to shave off a couple of nights at least. Either way it should give us ample time to create the bare bones of the tournament, like where exactly it should be held and when. This'll be a good learning experience for you too. You feeling up to the challenge?"

Grateful that he has some time to ready his heart for Arya's arrival, Gendry gave a nod, "As ready as I'll ever be."

* * *

"I wonder what made Lord Baratheon decide to hold a tournament?" Brienne asks her silent companion as they both stand upon the deck of the ship whose final destination is the dock of Shipbreaker's Bay.

"Don't know," Arya shrugged, only knowing that House Baratheon had asked for champions from House Stark. "What I'd like to know is why my stupid sister's making us help out with the stupid thing," she complained as she leaned against the railing of the ship currently turning right of The Bite toward The Narrow Sea.

Brienne enjoyed the wind in her hair as she replied, "It's probably due to Lord Baratheon's newness as a lord. Lady Sansa was probably just being kind."

"Sansa doesn't do anything just to be _kind_," Arya shot back with a pinched face. "She's doing this for a reason and I'd like to know what that reason _is_. I mean, I _get_ wanting to destroy the other houses, but why must we assist with the setup? It makes no sense."

"Well, either way," Brienne replied, enjoying the beauty of the sparkling water around them. "We'll be arriving in a few nights' time. They'll probably just have us assist with the building of the grounds. I'm not unfamiliar with it myself."

"Really?" Arya looked up to the taller woman, intrigued.

"My father used to love to host tournaments when I was a girl," Brienne said with a hint of nostalgia. "And I used to do all I could to be a part of them, even if that meant only helping the builders build. That is, until I took up the sword and my father finally recognized that I should."

"Have you been in a tourney before?" Arya asked, turning to fully face the woman knight she felt a small connection to.

"I've been in my fair share," Brienne nods, her words bringing up an old memory she was still quite proud of. "My last was the Melee at Bitterbridge where I won against the Knight of Flowers and was later named a part of Renly Baratheon's King's Guard."

"I've never been in one," Arya revealed as she turned back to the sea with her hands gripping the railing. "Was too young and didn't think I'd ever be allowed, anyway. To be honest, I'm sort of surprised I'm being allowed in _this_ one. I mean, I'm not a knight."

"You could be," Brienne looks at the younger woman shrewdly. "After all, I was once told you only need to have a knight to create another."

"No," Arya immediately shook her head. "Knights have codes of honor to uphold. I'd rather stick to my own morals, thanks. However loose they may be. No offense."

"None taken," Brienne replied, before considering, "Well, as to your allowance in the tournament, you don't have to be a knight to enter. I wasn't. You just have to be a decent fighter and you're rather renown now."

"Wish I wasn't," Arya told her truthfully, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. "I quite like being able to use my size and the fact that I'm a girl to make my enemy underestimate me."

Brienne nodded, all too knowingly.

Arya pulled a face that matched her weary tone. "Can't really do that with everyone calling me the Night King Slayer now can I?"

Brienne gave a slight sniff. "Maybe so but the words are true."

"Anyway," Arya changed the subject, "I wonder who all we'll be up against." She grinned as she thought about a certain red-haired Ironborn she would love to put in her place. "I hope the Greyjoys enter this time."

"No doubt we'll have to match up against each of their best," Brienne idly said.

"You looking forward to it?" Arya questioned, expectant.

"Well," Brienne considered, "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't looking forward to testing my skills outside the usual spars with yourself and Podrick."

"Just try not to kill anyone," Arya grinned, feeling more than confident in the other's prowess. "At least no one important. We can't go starting wars when this is supposed to be all about promoting peace."

"Is that something Lady Sansa said to you," Brienne asked, almost certain of the answer.

Arya looked away. "It's not like I needed the reminder."

"I'm sure Lady Sansa is aware," Brienne said, reassuringly. "It's still a good bit of advice for anyone, though. After all, tempers can flare during tournaments. Not everyone loses graciously."

"Well, I promise to behave myself as long as everyone else does." Arya wearily vows before looking to the horizon. "Still, it'll be nice to finally see Storm's End. I've heard it's beautiful there."

With the Isle of Tarth right across the sea, Brienne assures her, "Oh, it is."


	5. The High Lord And The Honored Guests

**The High Lord and The Honored Guests**

Puffs of white hang so low in the sky that Arya is left feeling that if she simply reaches up, she can snatch a cloud right from its place. There are bits of beautiful blue seen between the fluffy coverings but the smell in the air tells the sea-weathered woman that rain is coming and it may come soon. Humid and hot for the eve of summer, Arya inwardly welcomes the change in weather. However, all thoughts of changing out of her usual leather attire are gone as the boat makes a wide turn to the right from the Straits of Tarth to Shipbreaker's bay; when it does, Arya's breath catches in her throat.

It's still a fair distance away, but she can still see it. Perched on the steepest of cliffs, Storm's End stands tall and proud with the largest, thickest, circular walls she had ever seen that no doubt protects its inhabitants from the harshest of winds. In the middle, is a curved tower that looms grand and imposing above all the rest. In Arya's mind, it is a martial marvel, with no safe anchorage at its feet. The only way into the castle is over a high stone bridge that is the only connection to the jagged lands surrounding it. Storm's End is an apt name for the structure and even Arya had been taught by Old Nan that it is nigh impregnable and now she could easily see why.

A flock of birds catch her attention as they fly overhead towards the direction of the castle and Brienne's words bring her back from her awed stupor.

"There's a cold beauty in its crafting," Brienne wondrously remarks with a hand shielding her eyes of what little there is of the sun; her words are her fathers, ones that she also happens to agree with. After a beat, she gives the other the same bit of information the Lord of Tarth had always given her about their neighboring castle across the sea. "Built by Durran Godgrief, Westeros' first Storm King during the Dawn Age. It's said that magic was crafted into its walls to make it resistant to all storms."

Arya simply nodded at the historical lesson and then she gave back words of her own in return. "Who needs magic when you've got that massive outer curtain? Either way, only a fool would try and take it by force."

"You mean like the late Mace Tyrell," is Brienne's colorless response and the two of them lapsed into a comfortable silence that lasted all the way to port.

* * *

Upon disembarking from the ship, Brienne and Arya had been greeted by their new guide, Ser Alistair Morrigen, a nobleman and a knight from The Crow's Nest—the seat of House Morrigen. Arya found his appearance rather fair with green eyes, sandy colored hair, and just a hint of a beard. However, she also found that he was the type that she hated the most.

Questions about Winterfell and their battles were intermixed with so many nonsensical jokes as their brown mares had followed a small path that led alongside the cliffs to the connecting bridge and the castle beyond. After passing through three inner gates and taking in the many busy castle folk around them, the trio finally stopped at the foot of the great tower. Standing on the shadowed stone steps leading up is Ser Davos Seaworth who gives them a rather grand greeting as the two women dismount.

"Ser Brienne of Tarth and Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell, House Baratheon greets you and welcomes you to Storm's End," Ser Davos proclaims with a small bow. Then, nodding to their guide, he instructs, "Ser Morrigen, fetch a few servants to carry our guest's things to their rooms and then send a squire to return the mares to the stables if you would. When you're finished, let our lord know our honored guests have arrived."

The knight gave a flourished bow in return, but not before turning to their two guests with a respectful nod, "Ser and my lady, it was nice chatting with you. If I can ever be of assistance, please let me know," and then he was off.

"Let me show you to your rooms," Ser Davos offered as two guards opened the large double doors that allowed them entrance into Round Hall. "The lord will see you after you've been rested and fed," he happily advised as their eyes adjusted to the dim light inside.

Both women found themselves within stone walls with gold, torch-laden sconces above intricately crafted furniture and Baratheon rugs and banners all around. _Kings used to live here_, the room silently screamed and Arya was left a true believer.

"You arrived just in time for the afternoon meal," Davos commented as he gave them a chance to take in the grand antechamber he was quite proud of. "Glazed ham with a side of lamprey pie is on the menu and there will be ample blackberry wine to wash it all down with if you so choose. This way if you please."

Silently, Arya and Brienne followed after with eyes drinking in every sight like a sponge.

* * *

Inside the room painted in Baratheon colors of black and gold, a man dressed in matching finery busied himself at his desk that was lit by four large candles, on high wooden pedestals, set at every corner. On the walls around him were paintings of various battle scenes; the largest one was a brush-stroked piece from his father's rebellion.

"Come in," Gendry called to the knock at his scholar's door. His wrist was tired from writing so many tournament notices that he sorely welcomed any distraction. Looking up, he was grateful to find that his new visitor was someone whose company he rather enjoyed. With a nod, he addressed the other with his usual greeting, "Alistair. Come to annoy me have you?"

"Hello, my lord," Ser Alistair Morrigen dashingly greeted. "Of course not. Why, I've come to rescue you from the perils of your current duties."

"Be my guest," Gendry groaned, leaning back in his high-backed seat. "Who knew writing letters would be harder than smelting dragon glass?"

"Certainly not I," Ser Morrigen admitted as he took up a standing position on the other side of his lord's cluttered writing desk. "I mean, I'm not one to keep in touch with the House and the last time you tried to teach me to smelt anything I almost set the bloody place on fire."

"Rather be down at the forge right about now," Gendry sighed, pushing his papers away from him.

"Actually, you have better places to be, my lord," Ser Morrigen advised with a grin as he clasped his hands behind his back.

"And that would be?" Gendry questioned, righting himself in his seat.

"Wherever Ser Davos is currently entertaining Winterfell's Champions," Ser Morrigen gaily replied.

"Arya's here?" Gendry breathily asked with a sudden stutter in his heart, feeling that Ser Davos should have given him much more of a warning.

"Yes. Have to say, Lady Arya of House Stark is much shorter than I imagined," Ser Morrigen woefully admits, completely missing his lord's sudden unease. "From the talk about her, I thought she'd be taller than Ser Brienne of Tarth, who might I add is a sight to behold herself, but Lady Arya is just a slip of a woman and much too silent for my tastes. It's a little unnerving to be honest."

"Should've known her when she wouldn't shut up," Gendry wryly advised, rising from his seat and making sure his clothes were just right. "But don't let her size fool you. She's put far worse than you in the ground."

"Well, she is the Night King Slayer after all," Ser Morrigen stated with his usual humor, before frowning. "She's a cold one though. Doesn't laugh at any of my jokes."

"Maybe you need better jokes," Gendry good-naturedly teased, before bracing himself and asking, "Did Davos mention where we'll be meeting up?"

"No," Ser Morrigen conceded, before he grinned, "But if you wish, I can track him down and have him bring them up to the tower's roof."

"And _why_ would I do _that_?" Gendry questioned, running a hand back through his hair in an attempt to comb it.

"The view from up there is a wonder to behold, my lord," Ser Morrigen said with a wink. "No better way to impress the ladies."

"Just" Gendry sighed, "have Davos bring them to the strategy room, would you?" Thinking it better to say the words now, he added, "And could you watch what you say around our two guests? I mean, I can't go avenging your death even if I wanted to."

"As my lord commands," Ser Morrigen vowed with the ever present grin that was all but permanently etched on his face.

And then the knight was gone and Gendry sucked in a steadying breath. He could do this. He _could_. He just had to act normal, like he had been a gracious lord hosting guests his entire life, like one of the women wasn't someone he was still desperately trying to get over, like this wasn't going to be their first real conversation they'd had together since she had ultimately broken his heart.

"You can do this," Gendry repeated, eyes closed, in an effort to bolster his courage. However, as he finally exited the door, he had only managed to grasp onto a sliver.

* * *

"Are we missing someone?" Gendry asked Ser Brienne of Tarth who was seated on the other side of the map etched table with large, wood carved figurines strategically placed in certain spots. The candles in the chandelier, above them, flickered as his eyes settled on the empty high-backed chair to his guests right.

He watched Brienne give a slight grimace before she slowly replied, "The Lady Arya said she wasn't feeling well, my lord. She's retired to her chambers for the night. I do apologize for her absence."

The knots in his stomach loosen but not the tightness in his chest. Even though he still hadn't felt ready, he _had_ wanted to see her. Even still, he schooled his features and kept any disappointment from showing on his face.

"It's alright," he assured the other instead. "I just hope she feels better is all."

"You're too kind, Lord Baratheon," was Brienne's formal reply.

"Call me Gendry," he insisted, already feeling much more comfortable without Ser Davos and Arya nor anyone else around.

"Well, Lord Gendry, Lady Arya may not be here, but we had ample time to mull over a few ideas about the tournament during the journey here. If you don't mind, I'd rather go over them with you now?"

"Right then," Gendry nodded, before asking the fellow fighter, "I do have one question though. Will it be you entering the melee? I know for a fact that Arya can use everything she's given. So, I wasn't sure."

He watched Brienne nod, slack-faced as ever. "Yes, well, even though she has beaten me on several occasions, Arya says my stamina and strength far surpasses her own. I was the main entrant for House Stark, however—"

"You two have _sparred_?" Gendry interrupts with great interest. "Well, I guess you'd have had to being of the same House and her being the Master of Arms now and all." Gendry gave a quiet grin. "Have to say, I'd quite like to see that."

Brienne gave a thoughtful nod, "Well, you and many others will no doubt be able to do so and quite soon I should say. You see, we both agree it would be a better idea to let more than one champion from each house enter the melee if they are so inclined. It will be a better measure of one's skills and, to put it in Lady Arya's words, it will 'spice things up a bit.'"

"No doubt," Gendry pleasantly agrees. "Can't wait to see you two go at it then. I mean, I've been wanting to see Arya's sword play since Winterfell and I've seen yours for myself there. Even the undead were no match for _you_."

"Nor your hammer," she humbly replies.

"Anyway," Gendry gets back on topic, "Didn't mean to sidetrack you. You had other ideas? I'd like to hear them all."

And Brienne happily obliged.

* * *

"He's a remarkably casual sort of lord, but most agreeable," Brienne called to the smaller woman leaving her chamber door that was across from her own. "Can't say I understand why you didn't want to be there for the meeting. But don't make me lie for you again."

"I won't," Arya promised, before heading off down the torch lit hall and leaving the other silently staring after her retreating form.

* * *

The night winds were calm, unlike her heart, as Arya sat at the highest point of the tower that stood like a raised fist bared at the gods. It was late and her only companions were the waves crashing on the cliffs, far below, and the full moon hovering far above her. She knew she couldn't put off seeing him again and it wasn't fair to ask Brienne to lie for her either, but she hadn't been ready. However, if there was one thing Arya wasn't, she wasn't a coward.

"I won't run from this," she vows to the churning seas as she takes her hair down in an attempt to fully enjoy the breeze. Having already taken off her outer coat, she unlaced the top of her blouse above her usual breeches. "I'll make it a clean cut. …It'll only hurt for a bit."

* * *

Ser Davos came upon Ser Morrigen in the hall as he left Gendry's chambers. His carefree gait and the look on the younger man's face makes him pause.

"And just where are you going at this hour?" he asks the knight, not unkindly.

"Well," Ser Morrigen grins mischievously, "I just passed Lady Arya heading up to the Rookery, no doubt letting her dear lady sister know that she's arrived in one piece. I happened to let slip a bit about the hidden stairs leading up and thought I might—"

"You will do _no such thing_," Davos scolded. After a thought, he added in a much softer tone, "Why don't you take our restless lord out for a walk. Sleep clearly eludes him and you keep telling everyone who will listen about the view from on high."

"You mean take Lord Gendry up to the roof?" Ser Morrigen throws back, confused, "But you just said—"

"Aye, take him," Davos urged, "But don't tell him I gave you those instructions. And leave him there. Let him be alone for a while."

"But," Ser Morrigen protested, "Lady Arya might still be up there."

Davos wearily considered the other for a moment. Could he trust Ser Morrigen with his silent machinations? Then again, Alistair was a good lad and was the closest thing that his lord had to an actual friend. Making his decision, he gave the other a pointed look and a whispered, "I know."

After a beat, Ser Morrigen cottoned on and whispered back a surprised, "_Oh. …Ooooh._"

* * *

Gendry stood in the humid and stuffy rookery that smelled of bird droppings and old molded straw. Standing there, searching for what he was looking for, Gendry didn't know why he didn't just tell Alistair no. Then again, as he finally found and pushed a certain brick on the wall marked with a charcoaled X, he had need of somewhere to brood that wasn't the same four walls he was already so very sick of. The stone slab in the ceiling grated against the one behind it as it slid away and, as it did so, Gendry ignored the loud squawking of the surrounding ravens perched in so many cages atop their man-made stick-trees. Instead, he kept his attention on the starry night sky that slowly came into view, through the rectangular hole being created, above. Climbing up the stone steps, he ascended to the very top of the tower, intent on being alone with his thoughts about a certain someone.

However, when he finally stepped out into the salt-licked air, he found he wasn't the only person seeking a bit of solace. He found her standing with her back to the low stone wall that made up the top of the tower's crown. She was silent as he froze, caught up in her familiar gaze. He doesn't know how long they stand like that, but the world stops for him until she speaks.

"Lord Baratheon," Gendry watches her formally greet him as the wind catches a few strands of her long hair, making them float behind her, like ghosts on a breeze. He had never seen her like this, unbound and unkempt, except when they had…

"Don't call me that," he suddenly finds himself telling her, his words a mirror of her own to him once upon a time, "I'll always be plain Gendry to you," he tensely explains with a dry mouth, "And you Arya to me."

"You look well, Gendry," he hears her amend, and her casual cold tone eats at his stomach like poisonous bile.

He is suddenly so very glad for her earlier absence since everything about her current aloofness seems to be setting his anger ablaze.

"You look—" he cuts himself off. He won't say it, won't tell her how beautiful she looks with the soft waves in her hair framing her face, won't say how he likes the light summer clothes she's wearing instead of all the usual leather and fur. Instead, he stares over her shoulder to the brilliant glow of the full moon that leaves her profile in half shadow while still managing to light up half of the bay.

"What are you doing here?" he instead asks, before not being able to check himself from throwing her earlier absence back in her face. "Thought you were sick. Or were you just hiding from me?"

She turns and her expression is lost in shadow but he still hears her say, "I was."

Before he can marvel at her bravery to admit such a thing, she's turning back to him and the moon highlights her features that have turned as cold as steel. "But not anymore. It was wrong of me to do that and for that I apologize. I'm here for a reason and I'll stick to that purpose and when it's over, I'll be gone. I only ask that you put up with my presence until then."

He wants to reach out to her, to shake the formality from her and possibly shake some sense into her too. He wants to do something—anything—to make her see that it doesn't have to be this way. But what can he do? Once upon a time, he had already made his feelings for her quite plain. ...But maybe that was the problem. Maybe she felt they couldn't come back from wherever he had wrongfully placed them.

"Arya, we…" He swallows and tries again, desperate to hold onto her any way that he can. "This is stupid. We can still be friends. I mean, we've known each other for so long and been through so much together that there's no way we can't be—"

"No," Arya defiantly tells him before simply walking away.

"Why?" Gendry demands, instinctively grabbing her wrist. "Tell me one good reason why things can't go back to the way they used to be?"

With a fury, Arya rips her arm right out of his grip. His naive audacity makes her want to say the very things that have been spinning around in her heart and mind for so many moons, nightmares that have haunted her dreams, terrors that she knows she will one day have to face.

_I don't want to be standing in the crowd watching as you get married! I don't want to fake any smiles and hold any of yours and your lady's stupid heirs! I can't bear the thought of being forced to play nice while I watch you growing old with somebody else and every time I think about it, it fucking kills me inside! _

Instead of telling the whole truth, suddenly so very angry, her blood boils over as her vindictive side takes great pleasure in giving him the half-truth that she knows will cut ever so deep. "I'm being _practical, stupid_," she growls. "It's easier this way for the both of us, don't you see? After all, how can you even stand there and call us friends when you don't even know the first thing about the _real_ me?"

The force of her words punch him right in the gut, leaving Gendry too stunned to do anything as she merely walks away. After all, she had just confirmed one of his biggest fears.

However, Arya stops at the entrance leading back down into the rookery. Back to each other, with Gendry's arms limp at his sides and his eyes staring miserably up at the sky, she stares down into the blackness of the opened floor, and decides right then and there to hammer the last nail into the coffin by finally telling him some of her most sacred truths. _He doesn't understand_, she thinks. _I have to make him understand. When he does, he'll see. He'll want to forget all about me. _

"Before I'd even met you, my first kill was a simple stable boy. He was going to turn me in to the Lannisters when I was trying to escape King's Landing. Had to shut him up, you see. Needle slid right into his big fat belly. It bothered me at first, sure, but It had been all oh _so very easy_. The first _man_ I stabbed was after you and I parted ways. Didn't even know his name. Just heard him recounting his sickening little tale about killing my mother and mutilating my brother's corpse at my uncle's farce of a wedding," she all but snarled, mind already completely lost in the past.

"Stabbed him seven times in the back, neck, and shoulder and I savored every bloody minute of it too. Later, at an Inn, I ran into and then killed Polliver in the same way he killed Lommy, Needle right through the thinnest part of his neck. And then Rorge, that vagrant in the cage who threatened to rape me, came after Sandor and I and I stuck him right up inside his vile little guts. In Essos, I killed Ser Meryn Trant who killed my first sword dancing instructor by posing as a plaything for him before gouging out his eyes and ultimately slitting his throat. When I came back to Westeros, I continued my revenge for my family by making my way straight to the Twins. There, I ambushed and stabbed Lothar Frey and Black Walder where I knew no one would ever see. Oh, but I cut them up into itty bitty pieces and then baked their bloody parts into a tasty pigeon pie. And I Iater served that disgusting meal to their father before slicing his throat and smiling down at him as he bled out all over his shirt. And then I cut off and _wore_ Walder Frey's stupid ugly face and smiled as I poisoned every male in his stupid bloody House. And when I finally came back home to Winterfell, I got to watch Little Finger beg and plead for his stupid pathetic life before I just walked right up and took it from him like it was only my right to take," she finished, chest heaving, eyes unfocused, having relived every waking moment with heart pounding satisfaction.

Gendry was rooted to his spot, weighed down with every name and evil deed she had eagerly laid bare at his feet. He couldn't believe it, could hardly believe his ears even though she had just said it all with such nauseating glee. So Arya was the reason that House Frey was no longer? And she had murdered Lommy's killer … and become a killer herself.

_She's right_, he miserably thinks as he hangs his head at his own shame. _I don't know her.__I never would have thought her capable of such things_. However, it doesn't seem like she was finished talking and he just stands there and listens as he braces himself against even more of her skeletons and the sudden stiff breeze.

"They're not the only eyes I've shut forever. I've closed so many more in Braavos too," she reveals, solemn yet with just a hint of pride. "But those kills don't hold the same meaning to me, because they're not mine. Not really. They belong to a god that I used to revere."

After a pause, she sarcastically laughs and that mad sound and her next hidden secrets truly leave Gendry feeling like a stranger lives in Arya Stark's skin. "You know, these skills I have were forged in so much blood and I can't even say that all my victims deserved it either. After all, the Many-Faced God only gives you a name. You don't question it. You just go and find them and take them out and ultimately go about your merry way. Oh, but you better take their face though before you do, because you never know when you might need it to get close to your next target. You see, I was supposed to be no one back then, a person without any identity, but what I became was an assassin, dealing out death for a god that doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone."

She pauses and a shaking hand grips her other arm for support. Her nails dig deep into the widest meat, drawing blood, and the pain she feels gives her strength as well. She'll say this. She has to. It's the only strategy that she has come up with where they can both be free, free from a love that can never be. Love is the death of duty after all.

"You see?" she urges, doing everything she can to hang on to her hardened tone. "How could we ever stay friends when we were barely any to begin with." Silent tears drip from her eyes and down her cheeks as she grits her teeth and cuts further into the meat of her arm. She doesn't speak until she is absolutely positive she can control the timber in her voice. She knows her tone has to be cold and uncaring for this to work. And with everything she has, she finally manages it and when she does it leaves them both broken and raw. "And how could you have ever believed that you truly loved me when you knew nothing about me at all?"

With that, she disappears through the trap door as fast as she can and is much too preoccupied to notice Ser Alistair Morrigen tying a message to a raven's leg and not necessarily dropping any eaves.


	6. The Raven Knight and The Knight of Tarth

**The Raven Knight and the Knight of Tarth**

The castle courtyard was dark and mostly silent for it was so late that it was almost morning. However, there was one person awake and active; he was a man whose troubled heart and mind would not let him rest. The wall-mounted torches flickered in the otherwise empty forge as the Lord of Storm's End hammered out his frustrations on the beginnings of a blade.

Bang!

_Later, at an Inn, I ran into and then killed Polliver in the same way he killed Lommy, Needle right through the thinnest part of his neck. _

Bang!

_Oh, but I cut them up into itty bitty pieces and then baked their bloody parts into a tasty pigeon pie._

Bang!

_You see, I was supposed to be no one back then, a person without any identity, but what I became was an assassin, dealing out death for a god that doesn't give a shit about anything or anyone._

Bang!

_After all, how can you even stand there and call us friends when you don't even know the first thing about the real me?_

**Bang!**

_And how could you have ever believed that you truly loved me when you knew nothing about me at all?_

**Bang!**

Gendry ignored the flaming shattered pieces of the unfinished sword that dangerously flew all over the inside of the forge-singeing the weapon and armor laden tables and dirt covered floor around him. Ignoring that his skin had been lucky to escape certain pain, the hammer dropped from his hand as he slumped to the ground with the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. This hurt _so_ much more than his rejected proposal; at least back then the blow had been lessened by her soft kiss and kind words. This time, all he had was her cold tone and harsh truths to take in, and take them all in he had.

_She's a murderer now_, he thinks, the words simply resting on the tip of his mental tongue; they are tasteless, colorless, hold no inflection as he cares not one way or the other. The war for the throne had made everyone who survived a murderer in one way or the other: the common fighter for taking out their enemies that were men, women, and even sometimes children that had come at them underneath a different sigil than their own and all the noble's for sending their smallfolk to fight under their colorful banners as most had sat back in the comfort of their castle homes.

_She enjoys the kill_, a voice in the back of his head sneered as he recalled the grim satisfaction in Arya's voice as she had described cutting up Walder Frey's sons and how she had later fed them to him as some disgusting meal. Even still, as Gendry attempted in vain to stem the flow of hot traitorous tears, he could find an excuse for this too. Every name she had mentioned had taken or tried to take _someone_ or _something_ from her and with each kill a piece of herself unfortunately was lost in the process; it had to be true for what kind of person could cut up another human being or smile down at a man as he ate another's bloody parts?

_A wolf in sheep's clothing, that's who,_ that stupid voice inside him continued to mock. _The names on her list might've been all bloody bastards and cunts but not all the names she'd taken for that accursed god were._ _Said so herself, don't you remember?_ Oh, but, Gendry remembered.

_You don't question it. You just go and find them and take them out and ultimately go about your merry way._

How many innocent lives had Arya taken? This questioned burned at Gendry's insides like a searing brand. Did she even know? Did she even truly care? How many were simply the names of blameless women and children? The faultless young and the infirm? Or were they all just able-bodied persons who had done villainous deeds like the ones she had scratched off on her precious list? Gendry couldn't help but wonder at what point had Arya started to question the blood she had so willingly smeared all over her hands. Had she grown a conscience _before_ or _after_ she had finally decided to reclaim her identity and assist in the reclamation of her homeland? Also, what had made her decide to finally leave that wretched house of death in the first place? He still had so many questions and, sadly, he knew he would never receive any answers now. But the biggest concern of them all slipped past his lips even as they trembled.

"What happened to Arry? Where'd she go?"

_That girl who asked you to be her family is dead_, the eerie voice inside him jeered. _Arya killed her and buried her six feet deep!_

A painful sob bubbled up from Gendry's chest then as the thought rocked him to his very core. Little Arry was gone and left in her wake was a hollowed out shell of a woman who could change her face and make you think she felt something for you when she had mostly forgotten how to feel.

_Arya chose to stay in Winterfell and protect what's left of her family_, a new voice spoke up inside him; it was sure and as certain as the pain he felt. _That has to count for something. _

To Gendry, it did. It meant that she wasn't completely taken by the darkness that rose from the depths to eagerly claim the child who had suffered so much for so very long. All of her bloody revenge, The Battle at Winterfell, and her bit in King's Landing proved to him that a part of Arya could still love her family so fiercely that she would die protecting them. But Gendry _wasn't_ her family. She had said no to being his lady wife and he had ... he had made an error himself on the subject when he was still so very young.

_You wouldn't be my family. You'd be milady. _

He shares the blame for that, he knows. Even still, the night she had kissed him and taken him for herself, Gendry thought that things between them had finally changed for the better, thought that they had found a new way to become something special to each other that was surrounded in so much love. But his rose-colored glasses were shattered now and he remembers that night for what it was and it _hurts_ like the seven bloody hells.

_She used you_, the other voice hisses like a snake in his ear and his last bit of resolve crumbles away and leaves his sorrow agonizingly pouring from him like a hot waterfall. Gendry is so very glad that no one is around to hear him loudly break or see his hopeless pitiful state. But even if someone did appear, he wouldn't stop. He can't, because there are no excuses he can conjure, nothing he can grab onto that can help refute the accusation that he meant nothing to Arya and he is trying with everything he has to find something, anything.

Unfortunately, before Lord Bronn of Highgarden's wedding, Arya hadn't spoken a single word to him since she refused his ill-fated proposal. In truth, after the battle with the undead, he had only heard she had left Winterfell and had headed south to King's Landing because of a bit of guards' gossip he had overheard about them seeing her on the open road with The Hound. And Gendry had only known she had made it out of King's Landing alive when she had shown up to the council to free both Tyrion and Jon with her lady sister and Ser Brienne. Even then, Arya had kept to herself entirely and he hadn't had the nerve to seek her out on his own.

If he truly meant anything to her, Gendry knew she would have come to him or would have written to him at the very least. But she hadn't done anything of the sort. Instead, he knew now that she had used him and then thrown him away … just like his father, just like his mother, just like the Brotherhood without Banners, and everyone he had ever gotten close to back in his youthful days. Yet, a few hours ago, even with the fear that she had indeed used him, Gendry had still tried to keep her close in the only way he knew how. He had been more than willing to start over with Arya, to learn how to become simply friends again but even then she had strongly pushed him away.

"Why?" Gendry croaks out between a sob only to ask it again. "Why godsdammit, _why_?"

_You know why_, that insufferable voice insists. _She's already told you, mate, and there it is._

It feels like forever since they had spent that one glorious night together when everyone in Winterfell had all secretly thought that no one would be left alive in the morning. Even with no words of love or longing from Arya, but simply moans and mewling underneath his tender touch, it had been magical to Gendry; it was a magic that helped him survive the oncoming battle with Winter's avatars of death and destruction. However, it was the moment, afterward, when he had proposed to Arya that had been the happiest moment of his miserable life. The late Dragon Queen had made him finally worthy to stand beside her, and not behind her, and Daenerys Targaryen had given him much more to offer Arya than just his fanciful words.

Indeed, that moment had been the happiest he could ever remember. Gendry figured it would only be right that deciding to finally let Arya go would be his saddest. Back to the forge's wall, bringing his knees up to his chest, Gendry wrapped his arms around his drawn up legs. Face down, eyes wet but tears no longer slipping between lashes, he hoarsely ground out words that cut both blood and bone.

"So tired," he told the ghost of the woman who he knew would haunt and torture him for all the rest of his days, "Tired of hoping when I know I shouldn't, tired of wanting you when you don't want me."

* * *

It had taken Ser Brienne of Tarth quite a while to finally fall asleep, what with being in a bed that was not her own and sheets that felt and smelled unfamiliar. However, the urgent need to urinate had woken Brienne from the deep sleep that had finally called her home. One look outside the window, by her bed, told her that night was slowly giving way to day with the sky a million shades of grey and the rim of the world, just above the sea, the slightest yellowish-orange from the sun. Brienne wondered if she would be able to find sleep again or if she should just stay awake as she slid her legs off the bed.

Drawing the long dark dressing gown tight around her and re-knotting the tie at her waist, Brienne laid her bare feet to cold hard floor. After lighting a candle whose waxy bottom was stuck to a piece of tin with a curved handle from the nearby stand, she pushed off from the bed. Her feet softly slapped the frigid stones as she groggily made her way to the door, remembering, from her rounds of the castle before bed, that the privy wasn't too far down the corridor. If she remembered correctly it should be 6 doors down on the left hand side of the castle hall. Certain of her destination, Brienne grabbed the metal handle, twisted, and pulled. She swung the creaking piece of wood wide, however, when she found Arya Stark fully clothed and just reaching her own chamber door.

"What happened?" Brienne demanded, immediately eyeing the bloody bandage on the younger woman's forearm in the candlelight.

A dull "nothing" was the response given by the one who's back was to her, but Brienne wasn't having it.

"You're returning to your room when you should be asleep and you're coming back wounded," Brienne insisted, the protective knight in her largely stirring, "Tell me what happened."

"Just let it be," the other tiredly replied, hand paused on the doorknob yet still refusing to turn and face her.

"Arya," Brienne urged, before walking over, grabbing the other's wrist, and brandishing the covered wound in punctuation, "Who did this to you?"

Brienne watched Arya finally turn to her and when she did, Brienne let go of her grip like the other's skin was suddenly wildfire.

"_I_ did this," Arya told her with a pained face full of dark circles under wet bloodshot eyes. "I did all this to myself. So, please, just—just let it go."

And Brienne did, because, for whatever reason, the girl may have dealt herself a wound, but it was nothing compared to the suffering she saw clearly written all over Arya's features that were usually so very cool and aloof.

Brienne watched Arya finally turn the guest key in the latch and swing open the heavy piece of wood. Before Arya could disappear into the room's darkness, Brienne couldn't help but offer. "You can talk to me. Remember that."

"Just want to sleep," she heard Arya wearily say as the girl finally went to close the door.

Brienne stood in the hallway for a moment longer even as she heard the latch lock into place from the other side. She stood there, brows furrowed, trying to find pieces to a larger puzzle. However, nothing came to her for the only piece she could find was that Arya hadn't wanted to go to their meeting with the Lord of Storm's End. But then again, that could mean anything at this point or nothing at all. Regrettably, Brienne's full bladder screamed to be emptied, and, with flickering candle in hand, she made her way down the hall. However, she did so determined to find out what was going on with the youngest Stark Brienne was also charged to protect and serve … even if it meant protecting Arya from herself.

* * *

Outside the castle, dew was still settling on every blade of grass with the surrounding animals just waking and emerging from their hidden holes. However, inside the castle, the dining hall was crowded and full of the noise of those busy taking their morning meal. One such person was Ser Morrigen who was sitting at one of five long, horizontal tables in the grand hall with his nearest neighbor a few seats down. He was breaking his fast in peaceful silence until a certain Onion Knight stalked the aisle and sought him out.

"So, I just came from the forge," Ser Davos supplied as he sat down next to Ser Morrigen who was currently enjoying a plate of soft boiled eggs, strips of spiced bacon, and a chunk of honey glazed bread.

"Did you now?" Ser Morrigen replied back conversationally after biting into a yellow yoke.

"I did," Davos nodded, before casually asking, "and do you know what I found?"

"I can guess," Ser Morrigen replied, before washing his food down with a sip of mulberry juice.

"I found our lord all by himself, pounding away at a hunk of metal with dark circles under his eyes. You know he only ever puts hammer to steel these days when something's bothering him. You wouldn't happen to know _why_ lord Gendry looks like someone's walked over his grave would you, lad?" Davos asks Ser Morrigen with an expectant tone.

"He _doesn't_," Ser Morrigen corrected, before tucking into his breakfast again and swallowing. "To be fair, our lord looks like someone's danced a jig on his heart and then took a piss in it because that's _exactly_ what Lady Arya has done."

"You were supposed to just take him to the roof and let them be, not listen in on his personal affairs," Davos scolded with just a touch of real anger to hide his sudden apprehension.

"And I _did_," Ser Morrigen replied, before shrugging. "Not my fault they were '_still there'_ when I was sending a letter to my dear sister."

"Well, go on then," Davos tiredly urged without shame, "What did you hear?"

"First, you're a traveled man, Ser Davos, are you not?"" Ser Morrigen asked, rolling the half eaten egg on his plate in thought.

"That I am," Davos answered back, before amending, "Haven't been _everywhere_ outside Westeros, but I have visited my fair of ports during my smuggling days. _Why_?"

"Have you been to a place called Braavos?" Ser Morrigen slowly asked. "Do you know anything about what they call these Faceless Men?"

"Where did you hear that term?" Davos asked in a harsh whisper, as if even saying such a title could bring the very fiends swooping down upon them.

"From Lady Arya's own lips," Ser Morrigen supplied with dark humor.

"She mentioned them?" Davos immediately threw back with slits for eyes, "_Why_?"

"Said she _was_ one of them," Ser Morrigen sadly revised. "She also mentioned the god they revere." Waving a strip of bacon between his greasy fingers, he unenthusiastically admitted, "The name escapes me now, unfortunately."

"The Many-Faced God," Davos murmured back, shaken to the core at such information. "Are you sure she said—?"

"Positive," Ser Morrigen replied with dead certainty. "She told lord Gendry she'd killed several in its name."

"Seven hells…" Davos' dazed murmur trailed off, before he shook his head to clear it. "She was one of the terrors the people of Essos told their children stories about to make them behave. Oh, but they aren't myths. They're bloody real." Remembering what he had seen at Winterfell, he sighed, "Makes sense though. That girl had to have gotten instruction from somewhere, but who knew it would come from the hands of a bunch of assassins."

Ser Morrigen nodded before adding a bleak, "But apparently she was a killer _before_ and _after_ then too."

"How do you mean?" Davos questioned, drinking in every word the other said.

"She rattled off a list of _so many names_ to lord Gendry, describing in great detail the ways she dispatched each one too. Gruesome stuff. And her list had to have started when she was just a _child_. I'll have you know the Freys was _her_ doing, no one else's. …The things she did to that house. I mean to say how does someone cut up another person and bake them into a pie? And what kind of monster watches as the victims' father devours said meal? That's the stuff of nightmares that is," Ser Morrigen shivered at the ghost of her cruel words, pushing his plate away in disgust.

"The Freys…? _Seven hells_," Davos cursed yet again, having no idea the youngest Stark hid such a morbidly dark past. After all, everyone had assumed—himself included—that Jon or someone under Jon had been the one to avenge the Red Wedding, but it was his sister! His _little _sister!

"Then again," Ser Morrigen amended with a thoughtful tilt of his head. "Can't say they didn't _deserve _it. We all heard the dark tales about what had happened at Edmure Tully's disastrous nuptials and the vile things that were later done to the corpse of King Rob and his direwolf."

"That we did," Davos agreed and then his mind slipped to his own past. "I've tasted the poison of vengeance a time or two myself. The things I would have done to that Red Witch if she hadn't turned to dust..." Davos quickly shook off his rancorous thoughts about Melisandre and what she had done to his precious Shireen and returned to the issue at hand. "But why is our lord in such a stupor if the Lady Arya decided to come clean to him about her sordid past? One would think it would have brought them closer together." Stroking his beard in contemplation, he added, "Or Is it the killing he's having a hard time with?" He shrugged. "She's got a lot of blood on her hands, it's true, but after all the struggles for the throne and especially what happened at King's Landing, who doesn't? Besides," he added, knowing this bit better than anyone, "our past doesn't define who we are. It's our actions in the present that matters and she's training others to help protect her family. If that isn't honorable, I don't know what is."

"Unfortunately, the Lady Arya wielded her truths like blades, attempting to sever every connection between herself and our lord." Ser Morrigen sighed at Davos' confused look. "I mean to say she used her history as reasons why he had _never_ really known her. Said his ignorance was exactly why they were never really _friends_ to begin with and why he could have never truly _loved_ her as he had apparently told her before."

"That's not good," Davos woefully commented, surprised to find that Gendry had already spoken of his feelings to the youngest Stark … and obviously been rejected. "Not good _at all_."

"No," Ser Morrigen agreed before giving a slowly formed grin, "but now we know that our lord truly does love the Lady Arya … and she _him_."

"How can you be so sure?" Davos swiftly demanded, eager to know the truth for himself.

"I saw her tear-stained face as she left," Ser Morrigen wisely advised, recalling the highly distraught look on the woman's wet features and the bleeding of her arm and blood covered nails. "Her words were cold and cruel, true, but they deeply wounded the speaker as well." He gave a sad shake of the head, "Now, I don't claim to know the entire story between them, but I've thought about all that I'd heard and seen, and, to me, it seems Lady Arya is just a stubborn fool putting duty before love. Why else would she be attempting to push our lord away when she clearly loves him in return?"

"Lady Arya comes from stubborn stock," Davos agreed, thinking of all her family that had come and gone. "Aye, some of the most hardheaded people I've ever met. But those remaining have a love for each other that's been forged in the fires of tragedy. I could see the girl being too afraid to wonder off on her own path in case something happens to the only other Stark left in their ancestral home."

"Either way," Ser Morrigen sat back in his chair and addressed the other with a serious tone that was much unlike his usual jubilant self. "We have to find a way to rekindle their flame."

"So you're committed then?" Davos asked, truly surprised at this uncharacteristic turn of events.

"_Of course_," Ser Morrigen meaningfully vowed. "Can't have our lord moping around the castle now can we? Besides, what better lady for our Lord of Storm's End but the one who puts others happiness above her own. Don't get me wrong, the way she's handling things is horrid for all involved, but she wants her sister and Lord Gendry to be happy even if she's not and I can _respect_ that even if I don't _agree_." He gave a fond smile. "I think she has an inner strength that will complement our lord quite well."

"On that we both agree," Davos nodded, before giving a deep sigh of frustration. "Now, if we could just fix the new situation we've found ourselves in."

"To that," Ser Morrigen reached for his forgotten plate and picked up his last piece of bacon—popping it into his mouth "I do have a few ideas."

"Well, out with it, lad. We don't have all day," Davos demanded, ready to be done with their conversation so he could finally have some piece of mind about the whole situation.

"Well, for one," Ser Morrigen shrugged. "I'll just tell Lord Gendry the truth."

"I don't think that's the best idea, lad," Davos incredulously countered. "Lord Gendry's libel to shut himself off from us completely if he finds out about our scheming."

"I'm not going to tell him _that _part," Ser Morrigen corrected, rolling his eyes. "Just what I happened to see when I was sending my message off to my sister. It might spin things on its head for him if he knew it killed Lady Arya to do what she did."

"Could be the best move at this point," Davos gradually considered before he warned. "Just know that he may not take too well to the fact that you overheard something so personal between them."

Ser Morrigen gave back an affronted look. "What do you mean, kind sir? I didn't hear anything but the squawk of birds, I assure you. I can only tell you that I saw what I saw and nothing else."

"And your other ideas?" Ser Davos urged, ignoring the other's ignorant charade.

Ser Morrigen's grin remained as he simply replied, "We should have my dear sister attempt to court our favorite lord for all of Westeros to see."

* * *

In a hallway, just below the lord's chambers, Davos gave Ser Morrigen a pat to his shoulder before parting ways. Alone, Ser Morrigen took a breath and then pushed the door in front of him open before he stepped inside.

"You know, my lord," he casually said to the unseen naked man washing himself in the stone basin, on the other side of the large 3-tiered foldout screen. "I'll never understand why you don't just let the washer women do their work. You don't have to do all that yourself you know. It's the perks to being a lord after all."

"Can scrub and dress myself, thanks. Why are you here, Alistair?" Gendry wearily asked, slowly scouring the soot of the forge from his face. Features wet, yet eyes dry and heavy, he felt so very mentally drained and bodily tired that if he didn't continue moving, Gendry felt that he may just fall asleep and quite possibly drown.

"Would you like me to scrub your back?" Ser Morrigen chided as he sat down on the wooden bench, against the wall, by the door.

"Not this time or the next," Gendry tiredly lobbed back, taking a scrap of cloth to his naked body, on the other side of the screen. "Again, why are you here?"

"Well, besides trying to lighten your irritable mood," Ser Morrigen playfully grumbled, before choosing his words just right as he leaned back with crossed arms. "My lord, I have a few things to inform you of before I escort you downstairs to your next appointment with the tradesmen."

"Blighted schedule," Gendry groggily complained, wishing for the soft caress of his sheets instead.

"First," Ser Morrigen casually told the other, "I wanted to forewarn you that I invited my dear Fenosha to visit again and also tell you that it seems someone's gone and upset Lady Arya quite badly I might add."

Heart pounding, Gendry's hands paused mid scrub on his chest. "How do you mean?" he asked, mind suddenly a bit sharper, clearer at the mention of the woman he had already decided to forget.

"When I was sending my reply to my dear sister last night, I saw Lady Arya running from the tower roof with tears in her eyes, you see."

"She was _crying_?" Gendry demanded, so shocked the rag had fallen from his hands and landed in the water with a plop. "_Arya_ was?"

Ser Morrigen laid his head back on the stone wall. "Like someone had just stuck a knife in her heart and twisted. Poor girl. No idea what happened there."

Heart and mind jumbled, Gendry simply closed his eyes and laid back in the filled basin, soaking in the still warm waters and Ser Morrigen's surprising words.

_Arya crying? Over dismissing me like she had? But why? She had sounded so cold, so mean, so sure of her own words. This doesn't make any sense…. _Gendry was quiet for quite a time while he asked himself the same questions over and over again and found no answers.

"Why would she be…?" he trailed off, before his hands came up to thread fingers back through his drenched hair. "What does that even _mean_?"

Ser Morrigen's "My lord?" was met by another long stretch of silence where the frustration slowly ate away at Gendry's already tired mental state. The truth was, in the end, he was simply too tired to think coherently about the situation and felt that he was too caught up in his own feelings on the matter to be able to read anything between the lines. Upset and exhausted, Gendry kicked the water, making it splash outside the basin and onto the floor as he yelled at the image of the woman in his head that continued to do him in, "Always gotta make everything so bloody complicated don't you!"

"My lord," Ser Morrigen called again, this time more than a touch concerned, "Is everything okay?"

"No!" Gendry bellowed with boiled over rage at Arya for doing something that would, yet again, ignite even a sliver of hope inside him and himself for not being able to let it go. Hitting his head on the stones behind him a few times, the pain did somewhat dissipate the fog of sleep but it did nothing to clear up his emotional distress. At the end of his rope, Gendry desperately wanted to bend someone's ear for guidance but there was no one he could turn _to_. After all, no one knew their shared history together much less his true feelings for Arya or anything at all about his failed proposal. Unfortunately, even before he had asked Arya for her hand, no one had even had an inkling that Arya even knew who he was except for Hot Pie and The Hound and one was gone and the other couldn't keep a secret if his life depended on it. No one knew anything at all … but what if he told someone? But who could he even tell?

_Does it really matter_, that vile voice inside him spitefully asked. _Crying or not, she said the words and you've already made up your mind. It's high time you finally listened to her. Let. Her. Go._

"Sorry, Alistair, I," Gendry began as he went back to finishing his bath with more energy than he rightfully had. "Not myself today. I'll finish up here and then come with you downstairs. Sorry to make you wait."

"Not a problem, my lord," Ser Morrigen responded back, glad that the screen shielded his own features that had slipped into the deepest depths of worry. "Not a problem at all."

* * *

"Have you sent that raven I asked you about," Ser Davos asked Ser Morrigen as the younger knight came into the Strategy Room with their tired lord in tow.

"I did," Ser Morrigen offhandedly responded as he waited for his lord to sit, "With great detail. I'm sure the responder will be all too eager to assist."

"What are you two on about?" Gendry wearily asked as he took his seat at the head of the table, thankful that his extended bath had finished before any of the others had even arrived. "A raven? Sent to who?"

"Yes," Ser Davos answered for himself and the other. "To lady Fenosha of House Morrigen. Alistair's already written to her and asked her to visit. Figured he should write her back and ask if she'd be willing to assist in the formation of the tourney since she'll still be poking around here and all."

"Oh," Gendry replied, thinking of Alistair's earlier words that he hadn't responded to about his sibling's visit. In truth, he had met Alistair's half-sister on only one other occasion, but it was enough to remember her by. She was an older, rougher woman with dark hair and lightly tanned skin from Pentos who shared the commonality with himself that she and he were both bastards who were recently legitimized. "Almost forgot about that," Gendry guiltily admitted, before giving a shrug. "The more the merrier I suppose."

Out of their lord's sight, Ser Davos purposefully elbowed Ser Morrigen's side, behind Gendry's chair.

"You know, my lord," Ser Morrigen casually began, "Fenosha is well over a marrying age, if you'd like I could—"

"Sure," Gendry tiredly cut in. In the past, he had heard the all too familiar song and dance from Ser Davos more times than he cared to admit-heard and immediately struck such notions down. However, this time, an emotionally beaten and broken Gendry figured why not take the chance to actually do something that may help finally put Arya and all the shit that came with her behind him in the past where it belonged?

"What now?" was Ser Davos' surprised utterance to Ser Morrigen's equally shocked "Excuse me?"

"Why not," Gendry wearily shrugged, mind only half working—the other half so very ready to get his duties for the day over with so he could finally find some much needed rest. "Met her before and she seemed nice. Can try to get to know her better while she's here. If it doesn't work out, whatever."

"As you state, my lord," Ser Morrigen replied as he flicked worried eyes to Ser Davos, above Gendry, who gave him back the exact same look as well.

"Time to move on," they both heard the Lord of Storm's End wearily say and then their guests were arriving and neither man could say anything more on the matter that wasn't going entirely to plan.

* * *

Arya sat next to Brienne, at the strategy table, with various heads of castle tradesmen surrounding them. Edmont Portant, a sturdy man with matching chestnut colored hair and eyes, was the Head Carpenter directly in front of her and Willis Joston, a bear of a man with more raven hair on his arms than on his head, was the Head Blacksmith to Edmont's left; Jonathan Robarge, the gaunt Store Master with green eyes and straw colored hair, was to his right. The Lord of Storm's End sat at the end of the table with Ser Davos standing to the left of his high-backed chair and Ser Morrigen to its right. Edmont Portant was engaged in a long winded explanation of how they should build the stands around the jousting pit. However, Arya was too tired to listen; her mind wandered off as she simply stared at a crescent shaped pockmark on the man's red and ruddy face.

_He looks much more tired than I_, Arya thought as she recalled first setting eyes on Gendry when she had initially slipped into the room behind Brienne.

When she had first come in, Gendry had greeted her and Brienne like any lord should, with a formal Ser Brienne of Tarth and Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell. It had felt all shades of wrong, but Arya had pushed the feeling away. As she had sat down, she had wondered what Gendry had done after she had left him alone with his own misery up there on the castle's roof. She had wondered if he too had walked the halls as she had done, staying to the shadows so she wouldn't be found or if he had simply retired to his chambers and gone to sleep. The dark circles under Gendry's dimly lit eyes had told her otherwise. _Of course he hadn't_, she knew. After all, she had set out to destroy every remaining piece of whatever _could have been_ that stubbornly lingered between them. And she could tell that she had done a thorough enough job from the title he had called her and the hollow stare he had given her, like she was there but not the Arya he had known at all.

_This is what you wanted_, she told herself for the hundredth time that day. _Hold it together._ And she did as she turned glazed eyes to the next speaker.

"Gonna need new horseshoes for the joust, training swords and shields for the melee, and arrowheads for the archery part of the tourney too," Willis Joston growled in his gravelly voice of too many years yelling in the forge.

To be honest, Arya didn't really know why she and Brienne were really there; neither had much input to give in the way of building or planning. Either way, she was ever so thankful that they had all been told, at the beginning of the meeting, that their assembly would be kept brief; for their High Lord still had to meet with all the noblemen and smallfolk who have gathered from the Stormlands to have their monthly petitions heard. Truth be told, Arya couldn't wait to leave behind all the boredom that threatened to lull her to sleep. She also couldn't wait to get the hells away from the aftermath of her own selfish actions; it was more than evident in the lack of light in Gendry's usually brilliant blue eyes and the disappearance of even a hint of a smile on his thin lips that she had utterly broken him.

_I did this_, she thought as she struggled to keep her eyes away from the bodily reminder of all her cast off desires. However, fate wasn't kind to her as someone next called out her name.

"Does the Lady Arya Stark of Winterfell or Ser Brienne of Tarth have anything to add?" a familiar voice cut in, forcing her eyes around to the head of the table.

"No, my lord," Brienne answered for the both of them and Arya was grateful. It hurt to even look at Gendry, much less speak to him. Regrettably, now that her eyes were upon him once more, she couldn't pry her stubborn gaze from his face.

"Good," she watched Gendry say, before she further watched his eyes flicking from Brienne to the center of the table where candles and a basket of fruit lay. She watched him give the items a nod before he turned eyes back to each tradesmen in turn. "You've my permission to start building for the tourney. Keep in mind we're sending out invitations today. Everything's gotta be done in less than 2 months' time. Dismissed."

There was a series of "Yes, my lord," and "As you state, my lord" as everyone got up to leave. Arya, so very keen to leave herself, was almost out the door when she heard the call from behind. Her chest tightened and her stomach clenched before the speaker even finished his, "If the Lady of Winterfell wouldn't mind, I'd like to have a quick word."

Ser Davos and Ser Morrigen stood behind Gendry like statues fighting to keep their surprise from ever reaching the light of day. Their lord hadn't dismissed them like he _should_ _have_ if he wanted to speak privately to a friend. So they just stood there and waited to hear what he had to say to the woman who looked back at him with an unreadable face.

As for the Lord of Storm's End, he beckoned the woman to come to him with a jut of his chin. Gendry did so, so that he could let this version of Arya know, in his own way, that he was finally giving her everything she obviously wanted.

Arya walked back to the speaker who stared at her, and through her, with deadened eyes. When she came within range of normal conversation, she watched Gendry's features morph to show just how very tired of everything—and of her—he truly was. However, it wasn't his fatigued uncaring gaze that did her in. It was his heartless words that threatened to knock her right on her ass.

"Alistair's Sister Fenosha's coming to visit soon for the tourney and for our possible courtship. Talked to her before. She's a fan of yours, what being the Savior of all Men and all that. Not asking you to be nice to her, because you're not nice to anyone. Just tell her a tale or two if she asks. That's all."

And then Gendry was brushing past her with his entourage in tow, like she was just some simple person that he used to know.

_This is what you wanted_, she tells herself yet again as she grabs for her covered wound. Squeezing her forearm for strength, making it bleed unseen beneath her leather sleeve, she forces parting words of her own to a man that obviously hadn't waited for a reply. "Fuck you."

As she's left alone in the room, still squeezing her arm, Arya tilts her head back to keep her eyes dry even as she internally screams. _The hurt will be over soon! You'll forget all about him! You will! Just do the job you came to do and then leave and never look back! You can do this! You can! Just breathe! Remember, you're doing this for your family!_

Brienne, who had come back to collect her companion, silently watched Arya from the doorway. She had heard Lord Gendry's words, and, as Brienne took in Arya's reaction to them, she knows more now than she's aware she has a right to.

_She loves him, _Brienne thinks with certainty. _She loves him but she's telling herself she can't be with him. …Why? _Either way, Brienne couldn't leave her alone.

"Don't do this to yourself," she says, leaning against the door frame with crossed arms and an expression of deep concern. "Not when you're both still alive and well."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Arya growled, dropping her chin, schooling her features, and letting go of her wound. Allowing her anger to flow freely so that her eyes remained dry, Arya avidly brushed passed Brienne without a further word.

"Oh, but I _do_," Brienne quietly replied to Arya's retreating back, knowing full well what it's like to love someone so much and not have that love returned. Not really. Not for as long as she would have liked.


	7. The Schemers And The Schemed

**The Schemers and The Schemed**

The ride from The Crow's Nest had been uneventful, but hardly dry for Lady Fenosha of House Morrigen and her two traveling companions. A summer squall had snuck up on them on their first night camped out under the stars and it seemed their new metaphorical companion wouldn't leave them alone. Having already spent many a moon in the Stormland's now and being all too familiar with traveling among the elements in her past line of work, the sudden change in weather didn't bother Fenosha at all. Long cloak and riding clothes sticking to her like a second skin, her mare continued to gallop toward the narrow stone bridge leading to her final destination—Storm's End.

"Gods, will this rain ever let up?" Ser Kendal complained from atop his equally wet black steed. "Swear, almost drowned in my sleep last night."

"I'll take this shit over dying of thirst in the Red Waste any day," Fenosha commented, before leaning back her head and capturing water in the back of her throat. After an audible gulp, she added to the silent yellow-skinned handmaiden to her left who was dressed and drenched much the same, "Wouldn't you?"

Ti-Li remained silent, flicking two chips of obsidian to her lady and only giving a single nod in return. Setting her steady gaze forward again, the water pouring down Ti-Li's slanted features didn't seem to bother her one bit as she continued to ride, straight-backed, on her horse.

"My lady, we really need to get you warmed up by a fire soon or this shit, as you put it, may end up being the death of you," Ser Kendal glumly advised, his long dark hair soaked and sticking to his silver raven crested armor.

"You mean, might be the death of _you_," the woman with thick dark hair braided in several small rows down her back smirked, the silver beads on the end of each strand clattering together as she rode. "Keep saying you Westerosi are all too soft. Yourself the softest."

"Whatever my lady wants to believe," Ser Kendal replied, sucking his teeth, before posing right back with a roguish leer. "But that's not what you were moaning last night."

Blank faced, Ti-Li silently continued on as Fenosha's thick lips twisted and her brown eyes danced with dark humor. "Do you kiss your mother with that mouth Ser or should I do her a favor and slice it from your face?"

As they crossed the bridge, and before they made it in earshot of the poor rain and windblown guards standing atop Storm End's gates, Ser Kendal sassed back, "You could, but then you'd miss what it does betwixt those soft thighs."

With a smirk, Fenosha snorted and then she was turning and barking at the men staring down at them from their place atop the battlements. "Let the Lord of Storm's End know that Lady Fenosha of House Morrigen has arrived!"

Riding clothes completely drenched as well as their mounts, their horses cantered in their wet place as they waited for entrance. Alistair was supposed to meet them just outside the harbor and escort them up so that they didn't have to wait for the guards to get permission to open the way. However, due to the bad weather they were blessed with, the trio had arrived a night's turn later than expected. So, wait they must and wait they did until the gate was finally opened. When it did, a voice called a greeting over the pouring rain.

"Lady Fenosha of House Morrigen, how good it is to see you again!" a handsome, sandy haired, and green eyed knight bellowed.

"Drop the honorifics, Alistair," Fenosha grated, riding right past her half-sibling with purpose. "Been family for ages now. Try not to forget it."

Grinning, Alistair immediately turned his horse around to follow the rough woman who had inherited their castle and lands, only after she had had their father killed in the chaos of the war at King's Landing. He knew this to be true due to the letter she had written to him in great detail about how her lover and current bodyguard, Ser Oliver Kendal, had ran his father through with Fenosha's favored blade as his sister had stayed back at the Castle like their dear father had ordered her to. He had to admit, it was a nice scheme that left none the wiser.

"And there's that spitfire I've missed so much," Alistair playfully teased while urging his mount past the trotting trio to retake the lead.

"Must not miss me too much since you hardly write back," Fenosha peevishly replied with a glare as she urged her horse next to his. "You'd think with the old man's body having burnt to a crisp and me having _graciously_ taken up his mantel, my little brother would be more willing to check in now and again."

"I'll write more," Alistair replied as he affectionately stared right back at her. "I promise."

He grinned at the exaggerated eye roll she gave him in return. Truth be told, Alistair wasn't one to keep in touch with the House when his father ran it, but he had come to love the sister his wretched father had sent him to find. In truth, having hated his father since the moment the fool had declined to pay his mother's ransom when he was but a boy, Alistair had agreed to find his bastard sister so that she could be legitimized and take his place when he was one and eight. Old and unable to sire another heir, his father had wanted to use Fenosha as a political pawn to further his own means. But his father had learned, just as Alistair had during their long journey back from Essos, that a sellsword usually takes more than what was originally agreed upon. After all, Alistair had only talked the thuggish woman into coming back with him by telling her she could take whatever she wanted—his father's life included.

"You hear that?" Fenosha called to the smiling knight and silent handmaiden behind them. "Ti-Li, you've my permission to slice off his tiny balls if it all turns out to be a pack of lies."

"Please try to at least act more like a proper lady when you're in the presence of our lord paramount," Alistair heavily sighed, knowing his words were futile at best. "You're supposed to be here to convince him to woo you after all."

With the courtyard folk peaking out at them from their meager shelters as they passed, Fenosha sniffed derisively as they came upon the second gate within Storm's End's castle walls. "Why? Lord Gendry's already met me once. Didn't pretend then. Not going to pretend now. Besides," she added with a smirk. "I'm here for The Savior of All Men, not him."

Alistair pursed his lips in false thought as the rain beat down on his stag emblazoned chest plate and already drenched short crop of hair. "I'm starting to think that was a bad idea all round."

"No skin off my nose if you've changed your mind," Fenosha shrugged. "Don't care one way or the other as long as I get to challenge her."

"You will and the plan's still on, but there's a snag," Alistair told her as they waited for the third and last interior gate to open.

"What snag?" Fenosha prodded, a nail absently scratching at the rough indentation she had carved in her cheek. It was a habit she had picked up after having sliced the slave tattoo of a tear drop right off her own face after she first left Volantis.

"Lord Gendry appears to be trying to forget his past," Alistair wearily sighed. "He gave no argument to the idea of your possible courtship."

"Ha! Men like him don't forget women like us so easily," Fenosha arrogantly laughed, having no problem lumping herself in the same category as the lethal woman of so many rumors. At the other's skeptical look, she frowned, "Look, don't worry your pretty little face. Won't be a problem."

"How can you be so sure," Alistair pressed, eyeing his sister with lingering uncertainty.

However, that uncertainty turned to worry at seeing the feral flash of teeth his dear sister gave him as she sneered, "Men who like dangerous women like them _because_ they're dangerous. I just have to show him how dangerous she actually is. Once he sees all that pent up hells fire, he'll be tenting his breeches. And as for dangerous women, we don't take too kindly to people trying to take our things. When she _really _comes after me when no one else's around—and she will, 'cause they always do—I'll just tell her straight. You either take what's yours or I'll take it from you." Closing her eyes, she gave a low hum of arousal, "Mm… Twenty gold dragons says they don't even take off all their clothes. She just grabs him and pushes him up against the wall and just—"

"Yes, well," Alistair eagerly cut in as they reached the shadowed steps leading up to Round Hall, "thank the gods we're finally here." After dismounting from their horses and ordering a squire to fetch a few servants, he instructed, "Come. Let's get you to your rooms so you can get out of those wet clothes and warm yourself by the fire. Afterward, we'll get a few crumbs in your shriveled belly. And, after that, it would be prudent to meet our lord and your falsely betrothed first."

Fenosha nodded as she followed her brother with her two silent companions in tow. As they passed by so many Stag banners, Alistair had a thought.

"Did you bring anything nice to wear for your first meeting with Lord Gendry?" he asked as they neared the stairs leading up to the third floor that housed the guest quarters. "If not, I can have one of our many fair maidens scrounge something up for you if need be. Although, you're a little bigger than most, especially in the shoulders."

"Brought my own clothes, thanks," Fenosha replied back dismissively. "If the old man taught me anything, it's how to dress for an occasion."

"Really now?" Alistair asked rather surprised, "The last time you were here you were still wearing men's clothing, like _now_."

"Don't worry, Alistair," Ser Kendal spoke up from his and Ti-Li's place trailing behind them, "My lady cleans up quite nice when she wants to."

"Breeches and boots are all well and good," Fenosha slid her tongue along her teeth, "but nothing's wrong with liking pretty things too. Besides, skirts are easier to lift for fucking and pissing."

"Still don't know how father thought he'd _ever _be able to control you," Alistair dryly quipped.

"No one controls me," Fenosha darkly reminded. "Not anymore. You know that."

"That I do," Alistair agreed with a placating tone before sincerely adding, "I appreciate your agreeing to help out mine and Ser Davos' scheming."

"My skills don't come for free. Not even for you, little brother," Fenosha smirked with a pat to the other's shoulder. "I'll be taking my payment first thing."

* * *

After allowing their guests some alone time to change and go back downstairs to grab some grub, Alistair had found the trio in the dining hall and proceeded to lead his sister and her two companions up to The Petition Hall on the second floor.

Alistair glanced to the woman no longer wearing breeches and boots. With a nod of approval at her finely trimmed and billowing attire, he praised, "You look nice, my dear."

The moment the guards opened their way, Fenosha stepped in with a smirk lightening her hard cut features, "Oh, I know, but thank you all the same, little brother."

Beyond the two double doors that gave entrance, the hall opened up into a long high-ceilinged corridor with two large pillars on each side of the open space which were adorned with Baratheon banners and, on the far end of the room, a large, dark wood chair sat on a raised portion of the stone floor. Above the high-backed seat, on the wall, were large painted pictures of each of the past rulers (except for Renly and Stannis because they hadn't had time to pose during the events of the throne war).

"We've come at an opportune time," Alistair happily advised, before jutting his chin at two smallfolk currently engaged in talks with their seated High Lord at the far end of the hall, "They seem to be the last audience for the day."

"So, we stand here and wait for these two bloody fools to finish," Fenosha sighed, her statement not needing a reply.

"Conley Moody died durin' the war at King's Landin' he did! Old blighter had no wife, no brats of his own! No one's about the house now! Seeing as how I'm the closer neighbor. His lands should belong to me!" Josef Tartin bellowed to the portly fellow to his right who looked just as angry as he.

"Bullocks that is and you know it, Josef!" Timmith Worrell spat right back to the white haired man that was at least two moons older than he, "My house's closer than yer hovel made o' sticks! By rights that land belongs to me and me alone!"

After Ser Davos, standing to his right, had whispered something in his ear during the two's tirade, Gendry cut in. "Actually … with the owner dead, that deed goes back to me."

"Say what now?" was the response given from one Worrell and "Come again?" from Tartin.

"The land's mine," Gendry replied a little louder while adjusting himself more upright in his seat. Leveling an even stare at both dissatisfied men, he further advised, "And I'll give it to the next family that needs it and not two men that already owns their own property." Before either could argue back, he ended their conversation with a quick "You're both dismissed. Safe travels home."

"Nicely done, lad, if I do say so myself," Davos congratulated with a pat to the sitting man's shoulder. Looking toward the four approaching from the back of the hall, he added, "Looks like your new guests have arrived. You ready to greet your new lady love?"

"She's not _mine_ and we're _definitely_ not in love," Gendry scolded, suddenly more nervous than he knew he should be.

"Not yet anyway," Davos good-naturedly ribbed, giving a nod to his approaching co-conspirator with a smile.

Gendry rubbed his palms up and down the tops of his covered thighs, trying to transfer the sudden wetness on his palms. Besides still not being all that comfortable trading words with the fairer sex, it has been more than three night's time since he had made his rash decision during his sleep deprived state. Thinking much clearer now, Gendry had had enough time to realize just how hasty he had been. Sure, he still agreed it was high time to move on from a woman that didn't want him, but he knew all too well that he's not ready for _this_ in any way shape or form. Unfortunately, the ravens had already been sent with replies given and Alistair's sister was already here, walking toward him from across the room.

_Fucked myself right in the arse_, Gendry dismally thought. However, there wasn't anything to do about it now. Turning to the man who hovered over him like a proud father would, he said—speaking more to himself than Davos, "Just supposed to be getting to know her is all. If I like her, I like her. If I don't, I don't. Who knows, she might not even like _me_."

"Well," Davos, quipped with another warm pat to Gendry's shoulder, "here she comes, lad. Time to look sharp."

Waiting for the group to reach the foot of the yellow carpeted stairs below him, Gendry took in the sight of his guests. Lady Fenosha of House Morrigen was just a tad shorter than her brother Alistair but about the same height as himself. Billowing skirts of storm green flowed like ocean waves from her wide set hips and her broad shoulders were covered in supple brown leather whose thin straps crisscrossed in an X across her scarred chest with wider strips running horizontally across her flat torso. Gendry's eyes were drawn to the visible puckered flesh that started spaces above her cleavage and extended down to curve over the top of her left breast. He was trying to decide what had caused the wound that had obviously healed many moons before when he realized he shouldn't be staring there in the first place. Gendry immediately flicked his blue eyes up to the wound owner's face and found her brown eyes staring back at him below a raised brow. Willing the sudden heat in his cheeks and ears to go away, Gendry immediately moved his gaze to Alistair who he found to be giving him a rather disturbing grin.

Gendry gave him back a look that clearly said_, you can just stop trying to take the piss. That's not what I was doing. At all._

Eyes back on the woman who was still approaching and thankfully caught up in a conversation with her Knight, Gendry found that he would bet his left arm that Lady Fenosha hadn't been some mere merchant's assistant like the story she had tried to feed him the first time they had met after her appointment as head of House Morrigen. Besides the scar on her chest and the one below her eye, Lady Fenosha carried herself like someone who wasn't afraid of meeting the business end of a sword with her sharp words and dark humor. Of course, that suited Gendry just fine. Stiff shirted nobles always made him feel uneasy, even now when he is supposed to be acting more like one himself.

_Well_, Gendry sighed, _at least I'll have something to ask her about now._ Having found some small consolation in this revelation, he next set eyes on the rest of her group. Looking to the woman's left, he found the Raven Knight with long black wavy hair and a clean shaven rather handsome face above the usual plate armor and leather; linking eyes, the older man gave an easygoing nod that Gendry happily returned. Of course, Gendry had met Ser Kendal the last time that Lady Fenosha had visited and the man had been agreeable then as well.

As for the other…

Gendry turned eyes to the yellow-skinned woman to Lady Fenosha's right. Shiny black hair pulled back in a tight bun, she wore a high-necked, long sleeved dress that looked more like a coat; it's two silver clips at the waist kept it closed above a straight skirt. There was a hard edge to the two dark obsidian chips that were this woman's eyes that let all who saw her know that attempting conversation with her was ill-advised. Gendry had met the silent Ti-Li the last time as well and learned that lesson the hard way. He had made quite the fool of himself trying to talk to a woman who Fenosha had later told him didn't have a tongue—it having been ripped out by her last master Ti-Li had killed. Thankfully, Gendry's possible betrothed did have the ability to speak and speak she did with a casual air and a rough honesty about her that Gendry happened to appreciate. When the group finally reached the foot of the stairs, Gendry fist his shaking hands and rose from his seat.

"Lady Fenosha," he greeted, while trying to remember the rest of the lordly rhetoric he should be spitting out. "You're looking well. Hope your journey to get here wasn't too hard."

"Only hard on the arse," Fenosha nonchalantly replied with a cross of her arms over her chest. "Rear's grown as soft as a feathered pillow after being catered to for so long. Think I need to put more riding on the ol' schedule to help callous it up."

Her words caused Alistair to audibly sigh, but Gendry merely smiled. The only bad thing was Gendry didn't know what to say next. How was he supposed to follow that up? Fortunately, the woman in question saved him the effort.

"You remember Ser Kendal and Ti-Li?" Fenosha said jerking a thumb at each person mentioned.

"Yes, I hope you are both in good health as well," he formally greeted to which each individual gave a slight bow.

"Now that the formalities are out of the way, why don't we all go for a little walk and talk shall we?" Fenosha quickly offered, before asking with a flash of teeth, "Where's The Savior of All Men?"

Gendry's smile fell like a rock dropped in water. _Gods, no..._

He hadn't spoken to nor seen hide nor hair of Arya since the tradesman meeting three nights before, where he had basically told her—in no uncertain terms—that he had wiped his hands clean of her forever. Gendry was definitely not keen on the idea of seeking her out now. For one, he wouldn't know what to say. For another, he had been pretty rude to her and, without the safe blanket of being friends, he could very be well on his way to being her enemy and he knew what she did to those who had crossed her. Even knowing how irrational that may be, a small part of him couldn't help but hold on to that tiny fear.

_She enjoys the kill._ Gendry shook that thought from his head as he replied to Lady Fenosha's question about Arya's whereabouts.

"No idea," he spoke the truth, before looking around to Ser Davos and Ser Morrigen for support—hoping against hope that no one actually knew where she was. "Anyone know?"

Alistair became his least favorite person as he heard him turn to their guest and say, "On my way down to get you, I passed her by and I _believe_ I heard her mention something about going outside to the training yard."

"Was Ser Brienne of Tarth with her as well?" Fenosha asked with a glint in her eyes.

"That she was," Alistair nodded.

It was Ser Davos who hammered the nail in Gendry's coffin when he offered, "If we hurry, I believe we can still catch them on the grounds if my lady chooses. After all, sounds like the gods have finally blessed us with some sun."

_Oh, for the love of The Seven_, Gendry couldn't help but internally curse. Right now, he felt like everyone was out to get him.

"Oh, good," Gendry heard Fenosha eagerly reply and his heart sank right to his toes. Why in The Mother's name was the woman he was supposed to be possibly courting hells bent on forcing Arya on him right now? Gendry was left lamenting the unfairness of it all while trying to put his smile back on his face at the same time; obviously, it was a hard chore to handle.

However, Fenosha was soon in his space and linking an arm around his elbow. Caught off guard at her agility and forwardness, Gendry was too stunned to do anything but allow himself to be guided back towards the room's large double doors.

"You don't mind, do you my lord?" She presumptuously said a little too close to Gendry's ear as she all but pulled him along.

Looking back to Ser Davos, she gave him a pointed look, "Nothing else on his schedule, right?"

"No, my lady," Ser Davos shook his head, before adding, "We cleared the rest of his schedule to make room for your company today."

Cursing Davos, Gendry watched Fenosha give the bearded man a wink and a "Aren't you just the sweetest thing?" before he watched her turn back to himself. "Nothing like watching a good spar. Do you enjoy a melee as much as I do, lord Gendry?"

"I, uh," Gendry's wheels slowly churned in his head at her closeness, his mouth going dry as she pressed the side of her chest against him again. What could he say, he was a simple man with simple needs who hadn't been touched by anyone since that night in Winterfell's store room so many moons ago. Gendry quickly shook all thoughts of Arya's lips and soft body right out of his head. "I do," he instead forced the words from his cottony mouth. "I enjoy it."

"See," Fenosha smiled, still leading him toward the room's exit. "We already have so much in common." As a casual afterthought, she added, "Say, is The Savior of All Men and her female Knight going to be in the melee together?"

"Well, uh," Gendry began, completely taken in by the woman's quick pace and pressing warmth. "Was told they are. Going to be in the melee, I mean."

"Good. Good." Fenosha replied, her lovely smile still in place as she escorted Gendry out into the hall with their four silent companions following behind.

"Gets right down to business this one, doesn't she?" Ser Davos approvingly murmured to Alistair who rolled his eyes and murmured right back.

"You have _no_ idea."

As for Fenosha, her usual test had told her all she needed to know; Gendry's compliant reaction to the grabbing of his arm and his awkwardness to her forwardness thereafter had shown just how inept he truly was with women who show an interest and take charge.

_He's going to be putty in my hands_, she mused before her grin turned predatory at the thought of her true target. _But she'll be much more of a challenge now won't she?_


End file.
